• 


THE  LIBRARY 


OF 


THE 


OF 


LOS 


UNIVERSITY 
CALIFORNIA 
ANGELES 


' ' 


GAIL    HAMILTON'S    WRITINGS. 


SKIRMISHES   AND   SKETCHES. 

One  Volume. 

A   NEW   ATMOSPHERE. 

One  Volume. 

STUMBLING-BLOCKS. 

One  Volume. 

GALA-DAYS. 

One  Volume. 

COUNTRY  LIVING  AND  COUNTRY  THINKING. 

One  Volume. 


The  above  are  published  in  uniform  style,  by 

TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS. 


SKIRMISHES 


SKETCHES. 


BY   GAIL     HAMILTON;  La^t- 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS. 

1865. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1865,  by 

TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY    PRESS: 

WELCH,  BIGBLOW,   AND  COMPANY, 

CAMBRIDGE. 


5 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

CHILD-POWER 3 

"  GLORY  HALLELUJAH  ! " 10 

A  FOLLY  IN  ISRAEL .19 

A  LANDMARK  REMOVED .53 

DOUBTFUL  ARGUMENTS 61 

CHRIST  AS  A  PREACHER       .        .        .                .     '  .  73 

NATHANIEL  EMMONS  OF  FRANKLIN        ....  84 

BRAIN  AND  BRAWN      .......  95 

GLORYING  IN  THE  GOAD 107 

PICTURES  AND  A  PICTURE 141 

A  SUGGESTION  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  156 

A  COURT  CRIME .  163 

MOB  PATRIOTISM .170 

ELLEN    .                174 

A  WORD  TO  THE  INCONSIDERATE 180 

DRUNKENNESS  AND  DRINKING 191 

LANGUAGE 200 

CHRIST  IN  CAROLINA .  208   * 

EDDYKNY-MUR-R-PHY 218 

550404 


vi  CONTEXTS. 

MAGAZINE  LITERATURE 225 

WORDS  FOR  THE  WAY 233 

"Our  IN  THE  COLD" 245 

INTERRUPTION 251 

ANNO  DOMINI 259 

A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PATHS 277 

A  COUNTERCIIARM 318 

THK  NEW  SCHOOL  OF  BIOGRAPHY 330 

PICTOR  IGNOTUS 358 

MY  BOOK 399 


SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 


I. 


CHILD-POWER. 


!ORNY  was  a  disappointed  man.  When 
he  came  over  from  Ireland,  he  thought 
he  was  coming  to  El  Dorado.  Not 
that  he  had  ever  heard  of  such  a  place 
as  El  Dorado,  but  he  had  heard  wonderful  stories 
rehearsed  by  his  kinsfolk  and  neighbors,  and  he  im 
agined  that  our  rivers  were  milk,  and  our  lakes 
honey ;  that  gold  was  to  be  had  for  the  asking, 
and  silver  was  nothing  accounted  of  in  "  Ameri- 
ky."  So  Corny  kissed  his  father  and  mother, 
took  his  brown-haired,  bright-eyed  young  wife, 
his  pipe,  and  his  flute,  and  sailed  over  to  the  Land 
of  Promise.  He  found  that  it  promised  more  than 
it  performed  ;  or  rather  Irish  lips  had  reported  and 
Irish  ears  heard  more  than  was  ever  spoken.  The 
soil  of  Columbia,  like  the  soil  of  green  Erin,  is  coy 
to  cold  suitors.  Fortune  here,  as  fortune  there, 
will  be  wooed,  and  not  unsought  be  won  ;  and  the 
long  and  the  short  of  it  was,  that  Corny,  instead 
of  measuring  out  gold  dollars  by  the  sieveful,  had 


4  SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

to  take  his  hod  and  hoc  and  go  to  work  like  the  rest 
of  us.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  lie  was  disappointed  ? 
Who  would  not  be  disappointed  to  make  a  sea- 
journey  and  a  land-journey  of  three  thousand 
miles,  leaving  father  and  mother  and  mother-land 
behind,  and  at  the  end  of  it  find — a  shovel? 
It  was  as  if,  tired  of  the  toil  and  turmoil  of  this 
work-a-day  world,  you  should  take  up  your  pil 
grim-staff  some  fine  evening,  and  travel  on  to  the 
turreted  castle  that  rises  royally  in  yonder  sunset 
sky,  —  a  castle  whose  walls  are  amethyst  and  its 
portals  pearl,  —  which  seemed  to  beckon  you  on  to 
eternal  ambrosia  and  nectar,  to  promise  nothing 
less  than  that  you  should  be  served  by  Hebes, 
and  companioned  by  gods ;  and  after  weeks  of 
weary  wandering,  footsore  and  forlorn,  you  reach 
your  sunset  castle,  and  find  that  you  will  not  be 
invited  to  so  much  as  a  supper  of  Johnny-cake 
and  milk  till  you  shall  have  baked  the  Johnny- 
cake  and  milked  the  cow. 

But  Corny  put  the  best  face  on  the  matter,  and 
the  best  hand  too,  which  in  fact  amounts  to  pretty 
much  the  same  thing,  and  wrent  to  work.  Indeed, 
there  was  nothing  else  for  him  to  do.  He  had 
spent  all  his  money  in  coming  over,  and  in  Amer 
ica,  as  everywhere  else,  must  either  work  or  die. 
He  was  a  sturdy  lad  of  fields  and  pastures,  so  he 
went  into  the  country  and  mowed  great  swaths 
through  the  waving  valleys,  and  hoed  straight 
rows  through  the  brown  corn-lands,  and  smote  the 


CHILD-POWER.  5 

threshing-floors  with  regular,  strong  beats,  and 
pressed  the  sweet,  rich,  foaming  cider  into  the 
scented  vats.  In  winter  he  helped  to  gather  in 
abundant  crops  of  solid,  steely  ice  to  cool  the  sher 
bet  of  sultanas,  or  he  drove  his  large-limbed, 
steaming  oxen  over  the  frozen  roads  into  the  silent 
woods,  and  made  the  country-side  ring  with  the 
stroke  of  his  sturdy  axe.  So,  many  a  board  was 
crowned  and  many  a  hearth-stone  warmed  by 
the  willing  hand  of  this  sw^art,  hale,  hearty  Irish 
exile. 

All  this  while  bright-eyed  Kathleen  kept  every 
thing  snug  and  nice  in  the  two  rooms  of  their  little 
cottage,  her  own  self  the  snuggest  and  nicest  thing 
in  it,  and  that  Corny  knew  right  well.  To  this 
little  cottage  there  presently  came  a  great  joy  and 
a  great  sorrow,  —  a  great  joy  of  hope  and  antici 
pation,  a  great  sorrow  of  disappointment  for  a  lit 
tle  girl  "  that  was  dead  before  she  was  born  "  ; 
and  then  another  joy  of  hope  and  anticipation,  and 
another  sorrow  of  deep  disappointment  for  a  little 
boy  that  was  but  a  few  seconds  a  baby  before  he 
was  an  angel ;  and  yet  a  third  time  hope  budded 
and  bloomed,  —  yes,  thank  God  !  bloomed  into  a 
big,  burly,  scowling,  healthy  baby,  hideous  to  the 
unprejudiced  eye,  but  handsome  as  babies  go ;  and 
he  clenched  his  fist  and  vowed  in  baby  fashion  to 
live  as  long  as  Methuselah.  And  they  called  his 
name  Corny.  Then  in  all  the  land  was  nobody  so 
happy  as  Corny  and  Kathleen.  Corny  the  Great 


6  SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

worked  all  day  long,  and  then  came  home  and 
fluted  to  Corny  the  Less,  and  Kathleen  washed 
and  scrubbed  and  scolded,  and  said  the  baby  was 
cross,  and  such  a  trouble  she  could  n't  do  any 
work,  laughing  in  her  heart  the  while  for  pure  de 
light,  and  would  have  torn  your  tongue  out  if  you 
had  asserted  or  even  assented  that  the  baby  was 
the  least  bit  cross  or  troublesome. 

But  strange  to  say,  Corny,  who  had  borne  his 
disappointment  bravely  before,  now  that  he  was 
drinking  down  great  draughts  of  fatherly  joy  be 
gan  to  grow  discontented.  There  came  over  him  a 
mighty  yearning  for  the  Old  Country.  I  think  he 
wanted  to  show  his  foreign-born  baby  to  his  Cork 
county  friends,  and  perhaps  tlu's  new  paternal  love 
in  his  heart  revived  and  strengthened  the  old 
filial  love.  Just  now,  too,  letters  came  from  the 
Irish  homestead.  His  old  mother  declared  that  she 
believed  she  should  live  twenty  years  longer  if  she 
could  see  his  face  once  more.  His  old  father  made 
generous  Irish  proffers  of  unlimited  peat,  per 
petual  house  rent,  and  probable  inheritance  ;  and 
Corny  hung  up  his  scythe  and  threw  down  his 
hoe,  and  said  he  would  go.  Then  he  and  Kath 
leen  talked  it  over ;  and  Kathleen  did  not  care  for 
the  peat  nor  the  house  rent,  and  not  over  much,  I 
am  afraid,  for  the  father  and  mother  whom  she 
scarcely  knew.  She  only  saw  a  long,  tiresome, 
and  dangerous  voyage  for  the  prince  in  the  cradle, 
and  she  rocked  him  with  an  emphatic  foot,  and 


CHILD-POWER.  7 

made  no  scruple  of  letting  it  be  known  that  she  had 
a  very  contemptuous  opinion  of  migration,  and 
still  Corny  said  he  would  go.  Then  there  came 
stories  of  destitution,  distress,  and  impending  fam 
ine  in  sorrow-stricken  Ireland,  and  Kathleen  saw  a 
horrid  vision,  —  a  pair  of  quivering  jelly  cheeks 
growing  thin,  and  sharp,  and  still ;  dimples  flatten 
ing  out  of  little  hands,  creases  straightening  out  of 
little  legs  ;  and  what  '11  the  boy  do  for  milk  on 
shipboard?  asks  Kathleen  Avourneen,  a  slight 
savor  of  acid  in  her  honest,  ringing  voice. 

"  Sure,  an'  he  '11  drink  tay  now  like  an  ould 
woman,"  answers  Corny;  and  the  more  lions 
ramp  and  roar  in  his  path,  the  more  he  determines 
to  go,  and  gives  notice  accordingly  to  his  landlord. 

"  The  whole  world  cannot  stop  me  from  going," 
says  Corny  O'Curran. 

But  away  off  in  the  northwestern  corner  of  this 
country,  terrible  things  were  happening,  —  chil 
dren  torn  from  their  mother's  arms  and  beaten  to 
death  against  rocks,  husbands  shot  down  in  their 
wheat-fields,  wives  at  their  cottage-doors,  and  blood 
and  rapine  and  the  wild  war-whoop  scattering  hor 
ror  and  dismay.  Men  left  their  mown  grass  in  the 
fields,  their  oxen  standing  by  the  nebs,  the  cake 
smoking  on  the  hearth,  and  fled  for  life,  for  love, 
by  day,  by  night,  through  the  woods,  for  the  near 
est  forts  and  towns  of  refuge.  One  father  and 
mother  deserted  their  log-house  just  built,  their 
rich  lands  just  tilled,  all  their  past  toil  and  hope  of 


8  SKIRMISHES  AXD   SKETCHES. 

future  harvests,  sorrowing  only  for  one  little  mound 
in  the  corner  of  the  garden,  but  unspeakably  glad 
for  one  little  head  that  rested  still  on  their  bos 
oms,  and  turned  their  steps  to  the  remembered 
farm-house  in  New  England,  and  to  gray-haired 
parents  that  went  in  and  out  under  the  broad 
elm-shadows.  But  the  journey,  easy  for  the 
strong  man  and  woman,  was  too  hard  and  long 
for  the  baby  feet.  They  faltered,  they  turned 
aside,  they  went  up  the  shining  steeps  and  walked 
with  God. 

Corny  sauntered  past  the  old  farm-house  under 
the  elms,  one  afternoon,  the  very  day  he  had  given 
notice  to  his  landlord,  and  there  was  a  funeral. 
Some  one  standing  outside  told  him  the  sad  story 
of  that  little  life.  He  went  in.  He  saw  a  tiny 
coffin,  white  flowers,  a  dead  baby  face,  and  came 
out  shuddering.  When  he  went  home  that  night, 
he  went  straight  to  the  cradle.  Baby  Corny 
kicked  and  crowed  and  flung  up  his  warm,  mot 
tled  arms,  and  Man  Corny  took  kicking  legs,  and 
crowing  lips,  and  mottled  arms,  and  pressed  them 
all  in  a  huddle  close  against  his  heart. 

"  Corny,"  calls  Kathleen,  from  the  oven  hi  which 
her  head  is  thrust ;  "  Jem  has  been  here,  and  says 
he  '11  give  you  a  dollar  for  the  table." 

"Let  him  keep  his  dollar,  and  I'll  keep  me 
table,"  says  Corny,  tossing  baby  up  to  the  ceiling. 

"  It  's  all  ye  '11  be  likely  to  git,"  says  shrewd 
Kathleen. 


CHILD-POWER.  9 

"  An'  more,"  answers  Corny,  shamefaced. 
"  Katie,  I  don't  believe  we  '11  go  this  fall "  ;  —  and 
he  mumbles  something  about  work  and  wages  ;  but 
Kathleen  will  not  rest  till  she  has  the  whole  story, 
and  glad  enough  is  she.  Now  the  winter  is  upon 
us,  and  Corny  is  harvesting  great  granaries  of  ice, 
with  never  a  thought  of  fatherland,  because  he 
dreads  the  journey  for  his  boy. 

So  I  find  that  one  little  baby  in  long  frocks 
wields  a  stronger  power  than  "  all  the  world  "  be 
sides  ! 


i* 


II. 


"GLORY,   HALLELUJAH!" 


this  lyric  has  a  mission. 
It  would  not  be  surprising  if  the  Na 
tional  Hymn  —  which  the  thirteen  wise 
men  of  Gotham  went  a-fishing  for  last 
May,  baiting  their  hooks  with  golden  eagles,  and 
getting  many  nibbles,  but  no  fish  —  should  be 
found  at  last  in  this  rousing  song.  It  is  a  wonder 
ful  combination  of  incongruities,  and  can  scarcely 
have  been  marked  out  for  an  ordinary  career. 
There  is  high,  religious  fervor ;  a  sense  of  poetic 
justice  and  righteous  retribution  ;  a  scorn  of  gram 
mar  and  rhetoric  and  rhyme  and  reason ;  an  in 
coherence,  a  brutality,  a  diabolism,  a  patriotism, 
and  a  heroism,  which  must  make  it  go  down  the 
popular  throat  sweetly  as  the  grapes  of  Beulah. 
It  has  something  for  everybody.  It  appeals  to  all 
the  emotions.  It  sounds  the  gamut  of  humanity. 
It  is  like  the  great  image  which  Nebuchadnezzar 
saw  in  his  dream.  Its  head  is  of  fine  gold,  its 
breast  and  its  arms  of  silver,  its  belly  and  thighs 


"GLORY,  HALLELUJAH!"  11 

of  brass,  its  legs  of  iron,  and  its  feet  of  clay.  All 
this  eminently  fits  it  for  a  national  song,  since  a 
national  song  is  not  a  song  of  the  poets,  but  the 
song  of  a  people ;  and  a  people  is  heroic,  and  un 
reasonable,  and  incoherent,  and  brutal,  and  noble. 
Head  of  gold  and  feet  of  clay. 

The  origin  of  this  song,  like  that  of  Eng 
land's  National  Hymn,  is  somewhat  foggy,  —  or 
will  be,  if  it  is  let  alone  a  little  longer.  "  God 
save  the  Queen"  is  said  to  have  been  a  lay  of 
the  plotting  Jacobites,  who,  in  the  early  days  of 
the  Hanoverian  dynasty,  were  continually  schem 
ing  its  downfall,  and  the  restoration  of  the  Stuarts  ; 
and  the  king  who  was  sung  to  and  prayed  for 
was  the  exiled  Stuart,  not  the  "  great  George " 
actually  on  the  throne.  But  the  song  somehow 
worked  itself  into  the  public  taste,  and  by  a 
high-handed  process  was  furbished  and  handed 
over  to  the  loyal  Georgians  "as  good  as  new." 
Was  not  this  "  Glory,  Hallelujah ! "  sung  by  Colo 
nel  Ellsworth's  Zouaves  on  their  march  from  New 
York  to  Washington,  and  was  it  ever  sung  be 
fore  ?  It  seems  about  three  hundred  years  since 
then  ;  and,  after  such  a  lapse  of  time,  one  cannot, 
of  course,  certainly  locate  all  events  in  the  exact 
order  of  their  occurrence,  nor  have  I  any  docu 
ments  at  hand  to  verify  my  conjecture,  but  the 
"  March  till  the  battered  gates  of  Sumter  shall 
appear,"  savors  of  the  honest  and  patriotic,  but 
ignorant,  "  on  to  Richmond  "  enthusiasm  of  those 


12          SKIKMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

early  days.  That  line  surely  cannot  have  been 
written"  since  Bull  Run,  and  the  "pet  lambs" 
point  directly  to  the  Caliban  Zouaves,  who,  if  I 
recollect  right,  christened  themselves  thus.  Does 

O        7 

any  one  know  the  author  of  the  song,  or  the  time 
of  its  first  appearance  ? 

Let  us  look  at  its  head  of  gold. 

"  John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave, 
His  soul  is  marching  on." 

There  is  a  slight  suggestion  of  John  Brown  and 
the  little  Indian  of  the  fossilifeyous  ages  that  pre 
ceded  Fort  Sumter,  but  it  fades  away  before  the 
real  grandeur  of  the  idea.  The  rude  genius  which 
struck  out  this  lyric  has  hit  upon  a  sublime  prin 
ciple.  It  is  Bryant's  royal  thought  clad  in  peas 
ant  garb. 

"  Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again  ; 
The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers." 

In  homely  phrase  it  recognizes,  seizes,  and  pro 
mulgates  the  immortality  of  right,  the  indestruc 
tibility  of  truth  ;  and  the  people  recognize  and 
receive  it  with  a  unanimity  and  an  enthusiasm 
which  reconcile  one  for  a  moment  to  that  most 
capricious  of  apothegms,  the  voice  of  the  people 
is  the  voice  of  God.  On  that  summer  day  set 
in  the  brow  of  winter,  that  June  morning  lost 
amid  December  snows,  when  John  Brown  cast 
his  eyes  over  the  pleasant  land  which  he  had 


"GLORY,   HALLELUJAH!"  l 

come  to  redeem,  as  he  passed  to  the  gallows  which 
was  to  be  his  triumphal  car  down  the  centuries, 
—  when  he  stood  guarded  by  twenty-five  thou 
sand  soldiers,  and  surrounded  by  an  innumerable 
throng,  —  when  throughout  the  South  there  was 
terror  and  hatred  and  exultation,  and  throughout 
the  North  admiration  and  sore  regret,  —  who  fore 
saw  —  to-day  ?  Who  looked  forward  through 
these  two  memorable  years,  and  beheld  the  bris 
tling  hosts  of  Freedom  pressing  down  upon  Vir 
ginian  soil,  and  ringing  out  the  "  Glory,  Hallelu 
jah  ! "  on  the  spot  made  forever  sacred  by  that 
martyrdom  ?  Is  there  in  history  a  retribution 
more  swift,  a  justice  more  complete?  Whatever 
may  be  the  issue  of  the  war,  Virginia,  mother  of 
Presidents,  mother  of  abominations,  the  cruel  and 
cowardly  State  that  was  frantic  with  terror  before 
a  handful  of  brave  men,  and  frantic  with  lust 
for  their  blood  when  other  hands  than  hers  had 
given  them  into  her  power,  —  the  traitorous  and 
braggart  State,  fit  offspring  of  fathers  scummed 
from  English  cities  and  mothers  bought  for  a 
hundred  pounds  of  tobacco,  —  has  felt  by  her 
own  firesides  the  bitterness  of  death  and  the 
sharper  bitterness  of  desolation.  John  Brown 
violated  law  in  his  eagerness  to  dispense  justice. 
Virginia  violated  law  in  her  eagerness  to  dispense 
injustice,  and  "  the  curse  shall  be  on  her  for  ever 
and  ever."  Virginia  slew  John  Brown  in  the  in 
terests  of  slavery,  and  in  her  despite  of  Freedom. 


14  SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

A  hundred  thousand  men,  imbued  with  John 
Brown's  spirit,  and  armed  by  the  law  which  he 
broke,  march  past  his  gallows-tree,  and  Freedom  is 
avenged.  He  wrought  ill  for  a  noble  cause.  He 

o  o 

confounded  wrong  with  right.  He  would  punish 
wrong  by  wrong.  But  the  good  that  he  did  lives 
after  him,  and  the  evil  is  interred  with  his  bones. 
The  people  recognized  his  single  eye,  and  his  pure 
heart,  and  when  he  went,  they  felt  that  virtue 
was  gone  out  from  them.  They  forget  now  the 
illegality  of  his  measures,  and  remember  only 
the  purity  of  his  motives.  His  death  atoned  for 
his  errors.  His  hatred  of  slavery,  his  energy 
and  courage  and  fortitude  in  attacking  it,  were 
the  day-star  of  this  dawn  ;  and  so,  because  he 
wrought  ill,  his  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the 
grave,  and  because  he  purposed  well,  his  soul  is 
marching  on.  The  idea  for  which  he  laid  down 
his  life,  like  the  stone  which  was  cut  out  without 
hands,  is  becoming  a  great  mountain,  and  filling 
the  whole  land.  It  shall  yet  smite  the  image  before 
which  John  Brown  was  sacrificed,  and  break  it  to 
pieces,  and  grind  it  to  powder.  His  solitary  foot 
step  in  the  wilds  of  Virginia  heralded  that  grand 
army  whose  tramp  is  the  death-warrant  of  slavery. 
Virginia  has  herself  severed  the  cords  that  held 
back  the  knife  from  her  throat,  and  now  ven 
geance,  and  justice,  and  mercy,  join  hands  to 
drive  it  in  !  No  longer  covertly,  stealthily,  with 
veiled  designs,  by  crooked  ways,  but  in  open  day, 


"GLORY,  HALLELUJAH!"  15 

of  set  purpose,  with  erect  form  and  defiant  mien, 
Freedom  goes  down  to  give  light  to  them  that  sit 
in  darkness  and  the  shadow  of  death. 

Glory,  Hallelujah !  that  we  live  to  see  this  day ! 

"  0,  sad  for  him  whose  light  went  out 

Before  this  glory  came, 
Who  could  not  live  to  feel  his  kin 

To  every  noble  name;^ 
And  sadder  still  to  miss  the  joy 

That  twenty  millions  know, 
In  Human  Nature's  Holiday, 

From  all  that  makes  life  low." 

There  is  space  for  only  a  glance  at  the  less 
comely  parts  of  the  song.  Here  are  its  breast 
and  arms  of  silver :  — 

"  He  's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord,"  &c. 

The  popular  recognition  not  only  of  the  soul's  im 
mortality,  but  of  its  immortal  activity.  The  life 
that  battled  so  bravely,  endured  so  constantly,  and 
yielded  so  heroically,  was  not  wasted,  but  is  work 
ing  still  in  another  sphere,  and  working  for  the 
Lord. 

"  We  mourn  for  the  fallen  one,  we  weep  for  the  brave, 
Who  to  this  holy  cause  his  noble  life  he  gave ; 
Sadly  yet  proudly  we  shout  forth  thy  name, 
As  we  go  marching  on ! " 

Pathetic,  and  a  little  pleonastic,  but  the  people 
is  not  nice  as  to  its  ear,  nor  fastidious  as  to  its 
taste,  and  the  sorrow  is  sincere. 


16  SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

His  belly  and  thighs  of  brass :  —  ' 

"  Gird  on  the  warrior's  armor,  the  battle  ne'er  give  o'er; 
March  till  the  battered  gates  of  Sunitcr  shall  appear ; 
Kcst  uot  by  the  way,  till  you  plant  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
Where  the  traitor's  flag  now  waves." 

A  glorious  impulse,  but  praiseworthy  and  practi 
cable  only  as  it  is  consolidated  into  principle.  It 
savors  of  indignation  rather  than  determination ; 
and  determination  only,  guided  by  prudence,  and 
strengthened  by  obstacles,  wins  the  day. 
Legs  of  iron  and  feet  of  clay  :  — 

"  John  Brown's  knapsack  is  strapped  upon  his  back,"  &c. 

"  His  pet  lambs  will  meet  him  on  the  way,"  &c.,  &c.,  &c.  • 

* 
A  sudden  and  somewhat  unaccountable  return  to 

the  original  subject.  Evidently  the  author  is  more 
thoroughly  at  home  with  John  Brown  than  with 
abstractions,  and  goes  back  to  him  with  a  spring. 
But  the  meaning  is  involved  in  doubt.  There 
seems  to  be  a  blending  of  the  literal  and  the  fig 
urative.  His  knapsack  on  his  back,  may  be  but  a 
vivid  way  of  saying  that  he  is  still  in  good  work 
ing  order;  but  "his  pet  lambs"  are  in  the  flesh. 
How  can  the  actual  lambs  meet  the  abstract  John 
Brown  ?  or  does  it  mean  that  they  will  fight  to 
the  death,  and  so  meet  him  martyrs  in  the  same 
good  cause  ? 
The  next  — 

"  They  will  hang  Jeff  Davis  to  a  tree,"  &c.,  &c.  — 
brings  out  the  small  boys,  the  hard  men,  and  the 


"GLORY,  HALLELUJAH!"  17 

rough  people  generally,  in  full  force.  It  is  a  per 
fect  brutality  meter.  When  an  assembly  sings  it, 
you  shall  see  the  civilized  people  look  a  little 
startled,  —  as  if  they  were  getting  rather  more 
than  they  bargained  for ;  but  it  is  too  late  to  do 
anything  about  it,  so  they  lean  upon  each  other 
for  support,  smile  compromisingly,  and  conclude 
to  keep  on.  But  all  the  wild  beasts  are  mad  with 
delight;  they  find  their  blood-thirst  suddenly 
legalized  ;  their  tumultudusness  is  orthodox,  and 
they  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines. 
The  last  — 

"  Now  three  rousing  cheers  for  the  Union ! "  — 

is  a  universal  solvent.  Man  and  beast,  rough  and 
smooth,  are  melted  down  into  a  mere  mass  of 
swaying,  sonorous  patriotism,  whose  enormous  pres 
sure  would  certainly  result  in  an  explosion,  were 
it  not  for  the  safety  valve  of  the  final,  deafening 
"Hip!  hip!  hip!  Hurrah!" 

If,  now,  a  song  whose  marvellous  adaptation  to  the 
people  is  shown  by  the  universality  of  its  reception 
and  the  utter  abandonment  of  its  execution ;  if  a 
song  as  coarse  as  England's  and  a  good  deal  finer ; 
a  song  whose  music  is  —  at  least  to  an  uncultivated 
voice  and  ear  —  at  once  simple  and  magnificent; 
a  song  born,  as  it  were,  by  accident,  and  left  to 
itself,  but  working  its  way  by  its  own  inward 
energy  into  the  public  heart,  so  that  it  is  sung  by 
regiments  marching  through  crowded  New  York, 


18 


SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 


and  through  deserted  Charlestown*  and  by  all  the 
girls  they  left  behind  them,  and  boys  too,  —  if  this 
is  not  to  be  the  National  Hymn,  I  should  like  to 
know  the  reason  why  ! 


III. 


A   FOLLY    IN    ISRAEL. 


[Motto:  At  it  again!] 


(jjijijijjji^)  HERE  is  a  class  of  subjects,  not  innu- 
1  merous,  which  nearly  concern  the  in 
terests  of  the  Church,  but  of  which 
only  one  side  can  be  easily  presented. 
You  may  fill  columns  of  the  religious  newspapers 
with  the  good  that  is  done  by  Sunday  schools,  but 
it  is  not  lawful  to  recount  the  evil  which  they  do. 
You  may  point  out  from  the  narrative  of  the  thief 
on  the  cross  any  moral  which  the  Church  has 
educed  and  taught,  but  you  may  not  deviate  into 
lessons  of  your  own  learning.  You  may  exhort 
men  to  come  to  Christ,  you  may  even  describe 
his  excellences  for  their  imitation,  if  you  will 
depict  only  such  as  the  Church  has  agreed  to 
attribute  to  him  ;  but  if,  suspecting  that  the  tradi 
tions  of  men  nave  somewhat  overlaid  the  original 
manuscript,  you  should  attempt  to  erase  the  one 
and  restore  the  other,  you  may  count  on  small 
furtherance  in  your  work.  New  England  Puri 
tanism  is  very  far  from  Popery,  but  it  is  also  very 


20  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

far  from  a  practical  acknowledgment,  in  its  true 
significance,  of  the  right  of  private  judgment. 

In  one  respect  the  children  of  light  are  wise  in 
their  generation.  The  "  religious  newspapers  " 
are  probably  well  acquainted  with  the  tastes  and 
distastes  of  the  "religious  public."  They  know 
what  it  wih1  bear,  and  against  what  it  will  rebel ; 
and  they  doubtless  have  learned  more  thoroughly 
than  any  others  the  lesson  enunciated  by  Nie- 
buhr,  —  "  How  much  is  there  which  we  may  not 
say  aloud  for  fear  of  being  stoned  by  the  stupid 
good  people  !  " 

But  the  question  is,  whether  it  is  not  better  to 
be  stoned  by  the  stupid  good  people  than  to  buy 
them  off  by  pandering  to  their  prejudices.  If  they 
are  restless  under  a  presentation  of  opinions  differ 
ing  from  their  own,  shall  those  opinions  be  with 
held,  or  shall  they  be  gently  instructed  in  the  true 
nature  and  uses  of  opposition  ?  Are  leaders  given 
to  the  blind  for  the  purpose  of  guiding  them,  with 
some  difficulty  perhaps,  along  safe  paths,  or,  for 
the  sake  of  unity  and  peace,  shall  they  all  settle 
down  comfortably  together  in  the  ditch  ? 

It  is  not  a  question  which  can  be  evaded  witli 
impunity.  If  reformatory  opposition  be  not  per 
mitted,  destructive  opposition  will-  come  without 
permission.  If  the  Church  will  not  tolerate  free 
discussion  among  its  members,  there  will  be  riot 
ous  attacks  from  without,  and  a  decay  of  all  its 
forces  within.  A  "  be  it  resolved  "  cannot  change 


A   FOLLY  JN  ISRAEL.  21 

the  face  of  nature.  A  community  may  refuse  to 
tolerate  any  exposition  of  the  faults  in  its  pet 
plans  or  of  weakness  in  its  pet  beliefs,  and  then 
congratulate  itself  that  they  are  faultless.  But 
facts  do  not  disappear  because  men  refuse  to  con 
template  them.  If  the  Sunday  school  is  working 
mischief  upon  our  children,  its  work  is  mischief, 
however  strenuously  we  persist  in  calling  it  bene 
fit.  If  it  is  the  glory  and  beneficence  of  the  age, 
nothing  that  even  an  angel  from  heaven  can  say 
against  it  will  have  any  other  permanent  effect 
than  to  fasten  it  still  more  firmly  in  the  affection 
and  respect  of  the  people.  For  the  Sunday  school 
is  not  an  experiment,  struggling  up  timidly  into 
existence,  to  be  tenderly  entreated  till  a  fair  trial 
shall  have  shown  whereunto  the  thing  shall  grow. 
It  is  an  institution,  of  years  and  full  strength,  ex 
tending  with  every  month,  and  enjoying  the  almost 
unclouded  sunshine  of  popular  favor.  It  ought  to 
be  in  a  condition  to  court  the  freest  discussion. 
If  it  is  what  it  ought  to  be,  every  attack  will  only 
bring  discomfiture  to  its  foes  and  advantage  to 
itself.  If  it  is  not  what  it  ought  to  be,  it  should 
welcome  every  suggestion,  and  carefully  consider 
before  deciding  upon  adoption  or  rejection.  But 
the  fact  that  an  opinion  adverse  to  the  common 
features  of  the  Sunday  school  and  to  the  current 
topic  of  thought  regarding  it,  especially  an  opinion 
emanating  not  from  a  hostile  and  inexperienced 
Gentile,  who  may  be  assumed  to  be  ignorant  of  its 


22  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

workings,  but  from  an  Hebrew  of  the  Hebrews, 
who  is,  as  touching  the  law,  a  Pharisee,  and  con 
cerning  zeal,  absolutely  persecuting  the  Church, 
—  that  such  an  opinion  should  be  considered  too 
detrimental  to  be  allowed  expression,  is  an  argu 
ment  against  Sunday  schools  which  comprises  the 
essence  of  every  hostile  charge.  If  that  which 
professes  to  be  a  plan  for  good  working  may  not 
be  freely  and  publicly  discussed  by  the  lovers  of 
good  works,  it  must  lie  under  the  suspicion  of 
harboring  some  fatal  flaw. 

If  the  religious  public  does  not  see  this  by  its 
own  unaided  vision,  for  what  are  religious  periodi 
cals  established  but  to  lend  themselves  to  the  work 
of  enlightenment  ?  Or  is  it  so  that  while  the  cus 
toms  of  the  world  may  be  rigidly  scrutinized  and 
unsparingly  condemned,  the  customs  of  the  Church 
shall  not  be  so  much  as  looked  into  to  see  whether 
they  deserve  condemnation  ?  Then,  after  the  woe 
and  warfare  of  centuries,  we  are  reverting  again 
to  an  infallible  Church,  with  the  singular  and  sig 
nal  disadvantage  of  having  for  our  Divinity  no 
recognized  oracle.  What  came  well-defined,  if 
imperative,  from  the  lips  of  King  Pope,  now  clam 
ors,  discordant  and  unintelligible,  from  the  hun 
dred  mouths  of  King  Mob. 

This  paper  was  originally  written  for  an  able, 
catholic,  and  courteous  religious  newspaper.  The 
watchman  of  Zion,  a  mighty  man  of  war,  slum 
bered  at  his  post,  I  suspect,  and  the  vanguard 


A   FOLLY  IN  ISRAEL.  23 

rushed  in  and  gained  a  foothold ;  but  before  the 
second  detachment  could  knock  at  the  gates,  the 
sentinels  were  on  duty,  the  drawbridge  was  up, 
and  the  portcullis  down ! 

This,  as  well  as  all  the  other  papers,  is  written 
from  the  point  of  sight  of-  Orthodox  Congregation 
alism,  to  which,  let  my  conservative  but  sweet- 
tempered  brethren  of  that  denomination  be  as 
sured  I  adhere  with  the  devotion  of  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber,  and  to  whom  I  might  not  inaptly  address  the 
words  of  the  bricht  ladie  of  Elfinland  Wud,  who 
clung  so  desperately  to  the  scared  and  shuddering 
Erl  William :  - 

"  Gang  ye  eist,  or  fare  ye  wast, 
Or  tak  ye  the  road  that  ye  like  best, 
Far  owir  mure,  and  far  owir  fell, 
Thorow  dingle,  and  thorow  dell, 
Thorow  fire,  and  thorow  flude, 
Thorow  slauchtir,  thorow  blude, 
Eerilie  sal  nicht  wyndis  moan, 
Ghaist  with  ghaist  maun  wandir  on." 

But  the  Sunday  school  is  not  the  peculiar  insti 
tution  of  any  sect.  It  is  a  matter  of  deep  and 
broad  concern  to  Presbyterians,  Episcopalians, 
Unitarians,  and  all  such  outside  barbarians,  who 
are  cordially  invited  to  reap  for  themselves  every 
possible  benefit  from  the  following  remarks,  as 
freely  as  if  they  belonged  to  the  true  Church. 
For  the  Transcendentalists,  Swedenborgians,  and 
other  sesquipedalian  riff-raff,  who  are  so  deeply 


24  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

sunk  in  original  sin  that  a  little  more  or  less  of  it 
will  make  no  appreciable  difference  in  their  con 
dition,  they  may  as  well,  perhaps,  pass  by  on  the 
other  side.  And  now,  having  made  peace  with  all 
the  world,  I  will,  like  Pius  ^Eneas,  begin. 

The  Sunday  school,  as  at  present  conducted,  is 
not  an  unmitigated  blessing. 

The  old-time  fashion  of  assembling  young  peo 
ple  together  on  Sunday  in  order  to  indoctrinate 
them  into  the  truths  of  Christianity,  and  guiding 
them  through  a  regularly  prescribed  three  years' 
course,  must  have  been  very  profitable.  In  the 
younger,  but  still  old  times,  Martin  Luther's  plan 
of  gathering  into  Sunday  schools  the  children  who 
could  not  attend  day  schools,  and  teaching  them  to 
read  that  so  they  might  have  direct  access  to  the 
Bible,  was  also  most  commendable.  In  still  later 
times,  Robert  Raikes,  the  rich  and  liberally  edu 
cated  Gloucester  philanthropist,  smitten  to  the 
heart  by  the  vice  and  ignorance  around  him,  hired 
rooms,  gathered  in  the  forlorn,  neglected  children, 
and  paid  poor  women  a  shilling  a  day  to  teach  them 
to  read.  At  the  same  time,  Katy  Ferguson,  who 
was  neither  rich  nor  liberally  educated,  who  was, 
on  the  contrary,  so  abjectly  poor  that  she  had 
rights  which  white  people  were  bound  to  re 
spect,  but  who  showed  a  sagacity  which  all  must 
admire,  and  a  benevolence  which  we  cannot  choose 
but  love,  herself  organized  and  taught  a  Sunday 
school  in  New  York  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor 


A   FOLLY  IN  ISRAEL.      ,  25 

children  of  her  own  people.  These  schools  did  a 
truly  Christian  work.  They  .took  up  Christ's  little 
ones,  the  neglected  children  of  society,  miserable 
waifs  tossed  on  the  turbulent  tide  of  life,  unhap 
py  wretches  straggling  up  into  vice  and  crime, 
and  set  them  where  they  could  be  warmed 
by  the  Sun  of  Righteousness.  Reading,  writing, 
arithmetic,  the  common  things  which  more  fa 
vored  children  learned  on  week-days,  were  taught 
to  them  on  Sunday,  mingled  with  as  much  re 
ligious  instruction  as  they  were  able  to  compre 
hend.  But,  except  in  our  mission  schools,  the 
original  idea  of  the  Sunday  school  seems  to  be 
entirely  lost.  Our  ordinary  Sunday  schools  are 
composed  of  children  who  have  every  opportunity 
for  instruction  at  home  during  the  six  days  of  the 
week,  and  who  are  regular  attendants  at  church  on 
Sunday.  Where  lies  the  need  or  the  propriety  of 
Sunday  schools  for  them  ?  A  school  is  for  study, 
for  training ;  but  mental  discipline  is  not  necessary 
for  children  who  are  already  undergoing  strict 
mental  discipline  in  grammar  and  high  schools. 
And  surely  it  cannot  be  necessary  to  establish  a 
school  for  the  moral  and  religious  training  of  chil 
dren  who  have1  moral  and  religious  parents  at  home 
and  a  minister  for  Sundays. 

Moreover,  what  is  the  kind  of  instruction  which 
children  receive  in  Sunday  schools  ?  The  answer 
may  be  found,  partially,  by  looking  at  the  instruct 
ors.  Our  Sundav-school  teachers  are  selected  from 


26  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

the  general  community  by  the  superintendent,  and 
often  secured  with  much  difficulty.  Many  to  whom ' 
he  appeals  utterly  decline  to  serve,  others  serve 
reluctantly,  and  only  from  an  unwillingness  to 
seem  disobliging  or  from  a  sense  of  duty,  not  from 
any  spontaneous  desire  or  bent.  They  plead  earn 
estly,  sincerely,  and  often  no  doubt  justly,  their 
unfitness  for  the  work ;  but  he  pleads  with  equal 
earnestness  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  teachers  at 
all,  and  they  yield.  They  are  the  ordinary  fathers 
and  mothers  of  society,  with  no  especial  training 
for,  or  adaptation  to,  the  work.  They  are  no 
more  capable  of  wisely  and  worthily  instructing 
the  young  people  committed  to  their  charge  than 
are  the  parents  who  are  not  teachers.  By  what 
right,  then,  on  what  principle,  do  parents  go  home 
or  stay  at  home  to  read  or  rest  or  enjoy  themselves 
in  quiet,  and  send  their  children  away  to  church 
or  chapel  to  be  looked  after  by  people  to  whom 
they  do  not  belong,  and  who  would  like  to  stay  at 
home  and  have  the  Sunday-school  hour  in  quiet  as 
well  as  these  parents  ?  Why  should  parents  throw 
the  burden  of  their  children  upon  other  parents 
when  they  are  just  as  able  to  bear  the  burden 
themselves,  and  when  it  belongs  to  them  by  Divine 
allotment  ? 

Or,  again,  Sunday-school  teachers  are  young 
men  and  young  women  who  have  never  assumed 
the  responsibilities  or  learned  the  duties  of  the 
family.  They  not  only  have  no  especial  fitness, 


A   FOLLY  IN  ISRAEL.  27 

but  they  have  an  especial  unfitness  for  the  work. 
'  I  know  of  Sunday-school  teachers  who  are  merely 
gay  young  people,  without  religious  principle  or. 
even  religious  habits,  who,  out  of  school,  make  a 
mock  of  their  Sunday  instruction.  Not  very 
numerous,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  is  this  class  of  teach 
ers  ;  but  very  many  there  are,  who,  however  well 
disposed  they  may  be,  are  yet,  from  their  youth 
and  inexperience,  unfit  to  be  intrusted  with  the 
care  of  souls.  Fatherhood,  motherhood,  by  some 
mysterious  and  beautiful  Divine  arrangement, 
brings  its  own  wisdom  with  it;  a  very  ordinary 
man  or  woman  may  be  an  excellent  —  the  very 
best  —  teacher  for  his  own  child  ;  but  Sunday 
schools  take  children  away  from  the  ordinary  peo 
ple  who  have  this  extraordinary  fitness  and  put 
them  into  the  hands  of  people  equally  ordinary,  but 
without  the  fitness.  These  teachers  do  not  have 
that  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  children  which 
their  parents  possess,  and  which  is  indispensable 
to  a  right  and  sufficient  guidance  of  their  young 
lives,  nor  is  it  possible  that  they  should  have  that 
deep,  abiding  interest  which  the  parents  feel.  How 
is  it,  then,  that  parents  dare  commit  their  chil 
dren  to  such  unskilful  hands  ?  How  dare  they 
intrust  interests  so  important  to  an  agency  so  in 
adequate  ? 

Probably  not  one  parent  in  a  hundred  makes  a 
point  of  knowing  the  character  of  the  instruction 
which  his  child  receives.  What  the  child  volun- 


28  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

tarily  discloses,  they  know ;  but  they  do  not 
systematically,  by  careful  questioning,  by  indirect 
application,  by  pleasant  but  pertinent  conversation, 
ascertain  whether  their  children  are  learning  Ar- 
minianisra,  Socinianism,  Calvinism,  or  any  other 
ism.  It  is  hardly  to  be  doubted  that  a  person 
might  go  into  the  most  orthodox  Sunday  school, 
and  —  possibly  by  the  use  of  a  little  adroitness  and 
possibly  without  it — might  teach  almost  any  form 
of  heresy  without  the  smallest  danger  of  discovery 
by  the  parents.  Probably  there  are  few  who  teach 
heresy,  but  a  great  amount  of  disjointed  reasoning 
and  loose  theology  is  current  in  Sunday  schools. 
Assertion  takes  the  place  of  argument.  Opinions 
are  inculcated  rather  than  conclusions  reached. 
One  woman  once  asked  her  boys  what  the  teacher 
said  to  them.  "  O,  well,"  was  the  reply,  with 
something  like  a  yawn,  "  he  heard  us  say  the  les 
son,  and  then  he  asked  us  if  father  had  got  his 
haying  all  done,  and  said  he  'd  been  to  mash  three 
days  last  week,  and  had  got  to  go  again  Tuesday." 
This  may  be  an  exceptional  case,  but  so  far  as 
I  have  seen,  earnest,  systematic  investigation  — 
which  is  implied  in  the  idea  af  school  —  is  a  thing 
most  rare.  It  is  not  probably  the  fault  of  the 
teachers.  Their  education  was  very  likely  con 
ducted  in  the  same  inconsequent  and  incoherent 
manner.  They  were  never  taught  to  think  con 
secutively,  or  they  have  not  the  capacity  to  teach 
others  so  to  think.  They  are  at  their  wits'  end  to 


A   FOLLY  IN  ISRAEL.  29 

keep  their  classes  going  through  the  prescribed 
hour,  and  not  unfrequently  they  cannot  do  even 
that.  No  one  can  be  more  keenly  alive  to  their 
incompetency  than  themselves,  and  it  would  be 
cruel  to  cast  the  shadow  of  a  reproach  upon  them. 

The  positive  harm  that  is  done  in  this  direction 
is  small,  because  so  little  of  anything  is  done. 
What  mischief  is  wrought  lies  in  mistaking  this 
desultory  hour's  talk,  interspersed  with  a  thousand 
irrelevant  matters,  for  theological  -  and  religious 
education. 

Somewhat  of  the  character  of  Sunday  schools 
may  and  indeed  must  be  learned  from  the  aspect 
of  the  schools  themselves,  both  while  they  are  in 
session  and  after  they  are  dismissed.  The  adults 
in  school  are  generally  interested  in  their  study ; 
a  very  few  of  the  young  girls,  and  perhaps  of  the 
elder  lads,  are  somewhat  interested,  —  perhaps  it 
would  be  more  correct  to  say,  discover  a  possibility 
of  interest ;  while  many  are  far  more  observant  of 
the  dress  and  demeanor  of  their  companions  than  of 
the  lesson.  The  small  boys  and  girls  are  restless 
and  troublesome,  not  vicious,  but  simply  child-like, 
with  all  their  natural  propensities  for  mirth  and 
mischief  brought  into  play  emphatically  by  each 
other's  presence,  and  only  partially  restrained  by 
the  presence  of  authority  which  is  but  partial.  It 
is  a  matter  of  so  great  difficulty  to  fasten  the 
children's  thoughts  on  the  subject  presented  to 
them,  that  teachers  seem  forced  to  expend  the 


30  SKIRMISHES   AND   SKETCHES. 

greater  part  of  their  energy  in  keeping  them  quiet, 
rather  than  in  instructing  them.  There  is  no  com 
pulsion  to  insure  either  decorous  behavior  or  perfect 
lessons.  The  children  titter,  giggle,  whisper,  stare, 
compare  hats  and  bonnets,  and  in  ways  many  and 
various  evince  their  entire  indifference  to  the  mat 
ter  in  hand.  They  are  irreverent  during  the 
prayer,  distracted  and  consequently  impolite  dur 
ing  the  recitation  ;  and  when  school  is  over  they 
go  home  talking  of  dress,  play-day,  school,  and 
other  themes  entirely  irrelevant  and  unbecoming 
holy  time.  Before  they  have  passed  the  porch- 
door  you  may  hear  such  remarks  and  questions  as 
"  I  think  your  ribbon  is  ever  so  much  prettier 
than  mine,"  "Is  your  veil  just  like  Susey's?" 
•"  Why  don't  you  ever  wear  your  blue  dress  to 
meeting  ?  "  "  D'  you  know  Joe  got  fourteen 
perch  yesterday,  'n'  I'm  going  Wednesday." 
The  children  are  more  elaborately  dressed  and 
far  more  disorderly  and  intractable  than  on  week 
days,  and  there  is  little  else  to  show  that  they  are 
.  attending  a  religious  and  not  a  secular  school. 

But  Sunday  schools,  like  everything  else,  must 
be  judged  by  their  fruits.  This  is  a  somewhat 
difficult  matter.  We  must  decide  not.  only  from 
what  they  do,  but  from  what  they  leave  undone 
and  from  what  they  cause  others  to  leave  undone. 
Sunday  schools  are  organized,  it  is  admitted,  for 
the  study  of  the  Bible,  with  or  without  the  aid  of 
Question  Books.  How  much  knowledge  of  the 


A   FOLLY  IN  ISRAEL.  31 

Bible  our  fathers  and  mothers  had  in  their  youth, 
we  do  not,  of  course,  certainly  know ;  but  it  is 
certain  that  a  very  great  number  of  young  people 
are  growing  up  as  ignorant  of  the  Bible  as  it 
seems  possible  for  children  in  Christian  communi 
ties  to  be.  They  know  in  a  general  way  that 
Jesus  Christ  died  for  sinners,  and  that  Abraham 
and  David  are  Bible  characters,  but  of  the  history, 
chronology,  actual  teachings,  and  in  fact,  of  almost 
all  the  priceless  lore  of  the  Bible,  they  are  in  a 
state  of  profound  and  lamentable  ignorance.  The 
light  of  the  Bible  reflected  from  the  objects  among 
which  they  live  shines  upon  them ;  but  so  far  as 
light  direct  from  the  Bible  is  concerned,  they  are 
walking  in  a  darkness  that  may  be  felt.  They 
cannot  prove  doctrines  from  the  Bible ;  they  do 
not  even  know  with  any  definiteness  or  certainty 
what  is  the  creed  of  their  own  church,  much  less 
can  they  trace  its  origin  in  the  Bible.  With  the 
simple  and  most  charming  or  most  striking  narra 
tives  of  both  the  Old  and  the  New  Testament,  they 
are  often  entirely  unacquainted.  They  cannot 
explain  Bible  allusions  from  Judasan  scenery  or 
manners.  Out  of  a  group  of  a  dozen  or  twenty 
lads  and  lasses  from  thirteen  to  seventeen  years  of 
age,  all  intelligent  and  all  members  of  Sunday 
schools,  you  may  often  find  not  one  who  can  tell 
whether  Achan  is  the  name  of  a  man  or  a  moun 
tain,  what  is  the  connection  between  Jonah  and 
Nineveh,  or  what  is  the  direction  in  which  one 


32  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

should  push  his  researches  if  he  would  learn  the 
story  of  Mephibosheth  or  Onesimus  or  Ahithophel. 
Such  ignorance  is  the  rule  and  not  the  exception 
in  some  of  the  most  intelligent  religious  communi 
ties  in  New  England  villages  and  cities,  where 
Sunday  schools  have  been  in  what  is  called  suc 
cessful  operation  time  out  of  mind.  What  I  mean 
is,  more  definitely,  this :  gather  parties  of  intelli 
gent  young  people,  between  twelve  and  eighteen 
years  old,  who  belong  to  certain  flourishing  Ortho 
dox  congregations  in  city  and  country,  —  children 
of  church-members,  and  pupils  of  Sunday  schools, 
—  and  those  who  will  be  able  to  give  correct  infor 
mation  on  the  points  I  have  mentioned,  and  on 
others  of  similar  importance,  will  be  rare  excep 
tions.  As  these  congregations  are  not  below 
others  in  point  of  general  intelligence,  it  is  not 
probable  that  they  are  below  it  in  Scriptural 
knowledge. 

This  I  understand  to  be  the  main  thing.     It  is 

O 

of  no  use  to  report  large  numbers,  sweet  singing, 
prompt  and  constant  attendance,  bright  and  happy 
faces.  These  are  but  mint,  anise  and  cummin. 
These  indeed  ought  to  be  secured  if  possible ;  but 
if  with  all  these,  the  facts  and  principles  of  the 
Bible  are  not  learned,  the  Sunday  school  fails  of 
its  end.  Its  avowed  aim  is  not  to  give  an  hour's 
enjoyment  or  a  centre  of  attraction  to  children,  but 
to  root  and  ground  them  in  the  faith  once  de 
livered  to  the  saints ;  and  if  thev  fail  here  there 


A   FOLLY  IN  ISRAEL.  33 

is  no  success.  The  Sunday  school  is  sometimes 
said  to  be  the  nursery  of  the  Church ;  but  I  am 
"  sore  sick  at  heart "  for  the  world,  if  the  Church 
is  to  be  stocked  with  such  spindlings  as  the  Sun 
day  school  produces. 

Granting,  however,  that  the  Sunday  schools  ac 
complish  very  little,  if  it  can  be  proved,  or  if  it 
is  altogether  probable,  that  still  less  would  be 
done  without  them,  — that,  dense  as  is  the  igno 
rance  with  them,  it  would  be  still  more  dense  with 
out  them,  —  then  we  have  only  to  thank  God  and 
take  courage.  But  can  the  proof  or  the  prob 
ability  be  produced  ?  Fifty  years  ago  there  were 
few  if  any  Sunday  schools  in  New  England.  Are 
the  men  and  the  women  who  have  grown  up  in 
Sunday  schools  any  more  thorough  masters  of 
Bible  truth  than  the  men  and  the  women  of  fifty 
years  ago  who  were  brought  up  without  Sunday 
schools  ?  Are  the  lads  and  lasses  of  1864  better 
acquainted  with  the  facts  which  pertain  to  salva 
tion  than  were  the  lads  and  lasses  of  1814  ?  Are 
the  common  people,  the  young  mechanics,  farmers, 
tradesmen,  able  to  give  a  reason  for  the  hope  that 
is  in  them  any  more  clearly  and  forcibly  than  the 
common  people  were  fifty  years  ago  ?  Are  the 
boys  and  girls  now  any  more  truthful,  obedient, 
respectful,  unselfish,  than  the  boys  and  girls  of  the 
last  century  ? 

It  may  further  be  said  that,  although  Sunday 
schools  may  not  diffuse  or  deepen  Biblical  knowl- 
2*  c 


34  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

edge  so  much  as  is  to  be  desired,  the  salvation 
of  souls  is  the  ultimate  object  of  Sunday  schools, 
to  which  all  Biblical  knowledge  tends,  and  very 
many  trace  back  the  commencement  of  a  new  life 
to  the  influence  exerted  upon  them  in  Sunday 
schools.  In  view  of  such  facts,  how  can  there  be 
any  questions  of  benefit  ?  If  one  sinner  were  con 
verted  from  the  error  of  his  ways  by  Sunday- 
school  teaching,  we  should  be  amply  rewarded  for 
all  our  labors  ;  how  then  when  great  numbers 
look  back  upon  it  as  the  spot  "  where  their  weak 
ness  first  fell  bleeding  when  their  first  prayer  rose 
to  God"? 

Waiving  now  the  question  of  the  value  that  is 
to  be  attached  to  a  "  salvation  "  which  is  not 
founded  upon  the  rock,  and  fed  by  the  waters  of 
Bible  truth,  let  us  inquire  if  there  must  not  be 
somewhere  a  fatal  defect,  when  the  children  of 
Christian  families  receive  their  first  impulse  to 
wards  the  divine  life  in  Sunday  school  ?  If  it  has 
come  to  a  general  fact  that  more  children  accept 
divine  truth  from  Sunday-school  influence  than 
from  home  influence,  must  it  not  be  an  equally 
general  fact  that  homes  are  very  much  at  fault  ? 
It  is  fathers,  not  Sunday-school  teachers,  who  are 
commanded  to  bring  up  their  children  in  the  nur 
ture  and  admonition  of  the  Lord  ;  and  however 
Christian  parents  may  rejoice  in  the  conversion  of 
their  children  from  the  error  of  their  ways,  come 
when  and  how  it  will,  it  is  hardly  a  question 


A   FOLLY  IN  ISRAEL.  85 

whether  such  conversion,  caused  by  instruction  or 
warning  received  in  Sunday  school,  does  not  im 
ply  a  rebuke  for  parental  unfaithfulness.  The 
promises  of  the  Bible  are  emphatically  "  unto  you 
and  to  your  children."  The  promises  of  God  are 
in  Christ  yea,  and  in  him  amen ;  and  those  prom 
ises  are  most  explicit.  "  Train  up  a  child  in  the 
way  he  should  go,  and  when  he  is  old,  he  will  not 
depart  from  it."  There  is  no  modification,  no 
condition,  no  exception.  "  As  arrows  are  in  the 
hand  of  a  mighty  man,  so  are  children  of  the 
youth."  What  are  arrows  in  the  hands  of  a  mighty 
man  ?  Wavering,  wandering,  uncertain  things, 
which  will,  perhaps,  hit  the  mark,  and  perhaps 
go  wide  of  it ;  which  may  do  his  work,  but  which 
also  may  not,  —  may  even  recoil  against  himself,  to 
wound  and  torture  and  kill  ?  Is  it  not  plain  that 
just  as  the  mighty  man,  the  warrior,  the  sharp 
shooter,  wings  his  unerring  shaft  whithersoever  he 
will,  and  finds  in  it  a  sure  defence,  a  strength  and 
support,  so  the  father  may  bring  up  his  children  to 
be  what  he  wills,  the  staff  of  his  age,  the  joy  of  his 
soul,  the  hope  of  the  world  ?  If  the  Bible  does 
not  mean  this,  what  does  it  mean  ?  And  if  it  does 
mean  this,  ought  parents  to  be  content  that  their 
children  should  trace  back  their  change  from  the 
ways  of  death  into  the  ways  of  life  to  the  influence 
of  one  stranger  who  was  with  them  one  hour  a 
week,  rather  than  to  the  influence  of  two  persons 
who  were  with  them  nearly  all  the  other  hours, 


86  SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

and  who  had  all  the  advantages  of  consanguinity, 
intimacy*  interest,  and  a  common  love,  care,  duty, 
and  delight  ?  Surely  parents  must  have  cause  to 
look  lightly  on  their  duties,  and  value  lightly 
their  privileges,  before  they  can  with  compla 
cency  see  their  children  attribute  to  outside  agen 
cy  the  good  that  should  have  been  wrought  in 
the  sacred  privacy,  and  by  the  constant  healthful 
influences  of  home. 

But  it  may  be  claimed  this  is  putting  too  fine  a 
point  upon  it ;  if  the  work  is  done,  if  the  children 
grow  up  into  men  and  women  who  fear  God  and 
keep  his  commandments,  it  may  seem  to  be  a  mat 
ter  of  minor  importance  whether  it  be  the  work  of 
parents  or  others. 

But  is  even  this  work  done  ?  At  a  recent  State 
"Sunday-school  convention,  the  proportion  of  those 
who  became  Christians  in  Sunday  schools  was  said 
to  be  one  in  nine.  At  another  convention  it  was 
said  to  be  one  in  fifteen.  If  this  is  success,  what 
would  be  counted  failure  ? 

Nor  does  the  quality  of  our  religious  life,  any 
more  than  its  quantity,  tend  to  inspire  confidence 
in  the  means  adopted  to  awaken  and  nourish  it. 
Religious  society  is  too  largely  frivolous  in  its 
tastes,  absurd  in  its  fears,  and  narrow  in  its  views  ; 
religious  experience  is  shallow,  and  religious  prin 
ciples  are  weak,  and  it  can  be  for  no  other  reason 
than  that  religious  training  is  so  imperfect.  There 
is  no  subsoiling,  —  no  under-drainage,  no  thorough 


A    FOLLY  IN  ISRAEL.  37 

working  of  the  soil,  —  and,  in  consequence,  our 
crops  are  scanty  and  stunted.  The  religious  ele 
ment  of  New  England  possesses  not  a  tithe  of  the 
power  it  ought  to  wield,  because  it  is  so  feebly  man 
aged.  The  Sunday  school  is  partly,  though  uncon 
sciously  and  innocently,  to  blame  for  this.  It  cornes 
in,  not  with  the  intention,  but  in  fact,  to  relieve 
parents  from  responsibility  for  the  direct  religious 
training  of  their  children,  and  is  itself  wholly  in 
adequate  to  its  assumption.  When  parents  used  to 
hear  their  children  recite  the  Catechism  on  Sunday 
evening,  and  the  minister  heard  them  publicly 
once  a  month,  something  was  accomplished.  The 
little  people  may  not  have  understood  what  they 
were  saying,  but  seed  was  planted  in  their  minds 
which  presently  grew,  and  flourished,  and  brought 
forth  fruit  an  hundred-fold.  I  do  not  think  the 
Shorter  Catechism,  agreed  upon  by  the  Reverend 
Assembly  of  Divines  at  Westminster,  is  the 
best  possible  mode  of  presenting  Bible  truths  to 
infant  minds,  but  it  is  much  better  than  the  Sun 
day-school  mode.  It  did  no  moral  harm,  and 
much  intellectual  good ;  the  Sunday  school  does 
much  moral  harm,  and  no  intellectual  good  that  I 
could  ever  see.  I  should  be  glad  to  behold  every 
church  Sunday  school  in  the  land  swept  out  of 
existence,  if  by  such  act  the  Westminster  Cate 
chism  could  be  restored  to  the  place  it  once  occu 
pied  in  the  church  homes.  It  was  a  tough  old 
crust  for  young  teeth  to  gnaw,  but  it  was  excellent 


38  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

for  the  teeth.  Contrast  with  the  diluted  pap  which 
is  presented  to  children  in  the  shape  of  leading 
questions  with  monosyllabic  answers,  which  can  be 
given  nearly  as  correctly  without  study  as  with  it, 
the  sturdy,  sententious,  uncompromising  answers 
of  the  Westminster  Catechism :  — 

"What  is  God?" 

"  God  is  a  spirit,  infinite,  eternal,  and  unchange 
able,  in  his  being,  wisdom,  power,  holiness,  justice, 
goodness,  and  truth." 

"  Did  all  mankind  fall  in  Adam's  first  trans 
gression  ?" 

"  They  did,"  is  all  you  would  get  from  a  Sun 
day  school ;  but  hear  what  the  Westminster  Cate 
chism  saith  :  — 

"  The  covenant  being  made  with  Adam,  not 
only  for  himself  but  for  his  posterity,  all  man 
kind,  descending  from  him  by  ordinary  generation, 
sinned  in  him,  and  fell  with  him  in  his  first  trans 
gression. 

"  Wherein  consists  the  sinfulness  of  that  estate 
whereinto  man  fell  ? 

"  The  sinfulness  of  that  estate  whereinto  man 
fell  consists  in  the  guilt  of  Adam's  first  sin,  the 
want  of  original  righteousness,  and  the  corruption 
of  his  whole  nature,  which  is  commonly  called 
original  sin,  together  with  all  actual  transgressions 
which  proceeded  from  it. 

"Did  God  leave  all  mankind  to  perish  in  the 
estate  of  sin  and  misery  ? 


A   FOLLY  IN  ISRAEL.  39 

"  God  having,  out  of  his  mere  good  pleasure, 
from  all  eternity,  elected  some  to  everlasting  life, 
did  enter  into  a  covenant  of  grace,  to  deliver  them 
out  of  the  estate  of  sin  and  misery,  and  to  bring 
them  into  an  estate  of  salvation  by  a  Redeemer." 

It  is  not  necessary  to  believe  in  the  truth  of 
these  doctrines  in  order  to  see  that  the  child  who 
has  mastered  the  one  hundred  and  seven  answers 
containing  them,  has  gained  a  victory  over  sloth 
and  weakness  and  the  natural  inclination  to  shilly 
shallying,  which  will  stand  him  in  good  stead  all 
his  life.  When  he  grows  up  to  a  comprehen 
sion  of  the  statements,  he  may  accept  or  reject 
them,  but  he  will  know  what  he  is  about.  The 
mental  activity  which  they  have  caused  will  have 
given  him  a  firmness  of  fibre  that  will  preclude  all 
weak  yielding  and  swaying  hither  and  thither. 
His  reason  will  have  something  to  work  on. 

Apart  from  the  truth  of  the  answer,  its  form  is 
a  model  of  condensation  and  completeness.  No 
answer  hangs  upon  its  question,  but  each  stands 
upon  its  own  foundation.  Each  is  a  separate  pro 
position,  crystallizing  its  own  truth,  a  part  of  a 
symmetrical  whole,  yet  complete  in  itself.  Intel 
lectually,  a  thorough  course  of  the  Westminster 
Catechism  may  be  considered  about  equal  to  three 
terms  in  college.  Certainly  I  would  not  retain  the 
Catechism  when  something  better  is  offered ;  but 
as  certainly,  I  would  not  give  it  up  for  something 
worse. 


40  SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

We  had  another  blessing  under  the  reign  of  this 
deposed  monarch.  It  was  a  family-centralizing 
power.  It  was  a  focus  of  household  light.  It  is 
remembered  with  father,  mother,  brothers,  sisters, 
gathering  about  the  well-swept  hearth,  and  beauti 
ful  in  the  yellow  fire-light.  With  it  comes  back 
the  pride  of  youthful  vigor,  the  joy  of  youthful 
innocence.  Here,  shy  and  smiling,  on  papa's  feet 
sat  the  little  sister  whose  shining  curls  toss  only 
in  your  dreams.  There,  behind  the  light-stand, 
was  the  broad-browed  brother  who  went  up  to 
heaven  from  the  "  battle  in  the  clouds."  One 
gathering  golden  harvests  in  California,  and  one 
tossing  somewhere  on  the  broad  ocean,  you  can 
still  see,  side  by  side,  on  the  settee  in  the  corner. 
The  old  homestead  is  gone  to  ruin,  the  family 
name  is  passing  away ;  but  in  your  memory  the 
unbroken  circle  gathers  about  the  fireside  on 
Sunday  evening,  type  of  the  reunion  that  shall 
be.  The  simplest  and  sweetest  pleasures  of  life, 
the  tenderest  affections  of  the  heart,  the  most  hal 
lowed  associations,  the  most  sacred  hopes,  are 
entwined  with  the  memories  of  that  Sunday  even 
ing  exercise. 

What  have  we  gained  for  this?  Heterogeneous 
crowds  jostling  into  a  public  room,  and  jostling 
out  again.  Dozens  of  children  gathered  into  dozens 
of  classes,  with  dozens  of  teachers  such  as  could  be 
had  for  the  begging,  keeping  them  under  par 
tial  control  through  a  prayer,  or  suffering  them 


A   FOLLY  IN  ISRAEL.  41 

to  shout  out  responses  with  the  fury  of  a  cau 
cus  hurrah,  —  coaxing,  cajoling,  or  command 
ing  them  through  lessons  which  are  sometimes 
half  learned  and  sometimes  not  learned  at  all.  A 
gay,  often  boisterous  walk,  an  hour  without  quiet, 
—  parade  and  publicity,  —  only  this  and  noth 
ing  more. 

For  the  sanctity  of  home  we  have  the  secularity 
of  the  Sunday  school. 

The  abandonment  of  Sunday  schools  would  not 
necessarily  improve  home  education,  but  it  would 
have  a  tendency  to  do  it.  A  divided  responsibil 
ity  is  far  less  effective  than  an  undivided  one.  It 
is  a  homely  but  a  true  saying,  "  what  is  every 
body's  business  is  nobody's  business."  If  Christian 
parents  knew  that  whatever  religious  education 
their  children  have  must  be  given  by  themselves, 
they  would  be  far  more  concerned  to  bestow  it. 
If  they  would  not,  —  if  with  the  cessation  of  Sun 
day  schools,  religious  education  would  cease  alto 
gether  ;  if  the  hearts  of  Christian  men  and  women 
are  so  little  engaged  in  the  truth  which  their  minds 
profess  to  believe,  that  they  would  not  take  the 
trouble  to  teach  them  to  their  children  ;  that,  un 
less  they  can  induce  some  stranger  to  do  the  work, 
it  will  not  be  done  at  all,  —  then  I  have  only  to 
say  that  our  profession  of  Christianity  is  the  most 
wretched  deceit  and  mockery,  is  indeed  the  most 
dreary  and  hopeless  form  in  which  atheism  can 
present  itself.  I  assume  without  misgiving  that 


42  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

the  present  defects  in  religious  training  have  their 
origin  in  want  of  just  observation.  Parents  fancy 
themselves  'to  be  doing  the  best  thing  for  their 
children  when  they  send  them  to  the  Sunday 
school.  It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  it  is  con 
scious,  deliberate  laziness,  for  such  a  belief  would 
strike  at  the  root  of  Christian  character.  It  is 
equally  difficult  to  believe  that  parents  who  do 
not  send  their  children  to  Sunday  school,  nor 
cultivate  their  religious  nature  at  home,  can  find 
in  my  suggestions  any  justification  of  their  course. 
So  I  cannot  think  it  too  much  to  hope  that  our 
lost  Sunday  evening  may  yet  be  restored  to  us.  At 
present,  what  with  one  thing  and  what  with  an 
other,  we  seem  to  have  forfeited  it  altogether.  Our 
fathers  kept  both  Saturday  and  Sunday  evenings. 
We  make  the  balance  true  by  keeping  neither. 
We  have  churches  and  gas-lights,  singing  and  ser 
mons,  walking  and  talking,  but  we  have  no  Sunday 
evening.  There  is  a  prayer  and  conference  meet 
ing,  a  Union  lecture,  a  Sunday-school  concert, 
one  or  another  form  of  gadding  about  for  change, 
christened  with  some  pious  sounding  name,  but  no 
sweet,  systematic  home-keeping.  We  are  all  gone 
astray  after  gayety  and  dissipation.  There  is 
none  that  stand  in  the  ways,  and  see  and  ask 
for  the  old  paths,  where  is  the  good  way,  and 
walk  therein  and  find  rest  on  the  rest-day  for  their 
souls.  It  was  a  small  thing  for  some  well-mean 
ing  persons  to  put  in  their  officious  hands  and 


A   FOLLY  IN  ISRAEL.  43 

draw  away  the  children  for  a  short  space  on 
Sunday  from  the  family  fireside  ;  but  somehow 
the  whole  family  is  dragged  after  them  and  the 
hearth-stone  is  cold.  An  hour  in  a'chapel  need 
not  change  the  whole  Christian  Sabbath,  the 
whole  family  arrangement ;  but  it  created  a  new 
centre  of  attraction,  and  all  the  moons  and  stars 
seem  to  have  left  their  orbits  to  circle  around  it,  — 
and  the  poor  old  honest  earth  sits  in  darkness, 
weeping  for  her  children  and  will  not  be  comforted 
because  they  are  not. 

There  is  another  evil  found  in  connection  with 
Sunday  schools,  but  when  orJtiow  it  arose,  whether 
from  them  or  simply  along  with  them  or  entirely 
apart  from  them,  I  do  not  know.  I  mean  the  ava 
lanche  of  silly  books  which  is  continually  sliding 
down  upon  the  young  mind,  and  which  threatens 
to  bury  all  vigor,  all  intelligence,  all  intellectual 
activity,  under  a  mass  of  stilted,  sentimental  non 
sense.  We  often  hear  and  read  ecclesiastical  de 
precation  of  novel  reading ;  but  do  Christain 
parents  know  that  "their  children  are  surfeiting 
themselves  at  the  Sunday-school  libraries  with 
weak  and  worthless  novels  ?  If  false  views  of 
life,  if  unnatural  representations  of  character,  if 
appeals  to  passion  and  vanity,  if  melodramatic 
scenes  and  sensational  incidents,  make  novels  per 
nicious  reading  for  the  young,  then  are  our  Sun 
day-school  libraries  dealing  out  pernicious  reading. 
How  long  this  evil  has  been  in  existence  I  do  not . 


44  SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

know,  but  it  seems  to  be  at  full  tide  now.  I  have 
looked  over  an  old  catalogue  of  a  Sunday-school 
library  collected  about  sixteen  years  ago,  and  com 
pared  it  with  catalogues  of  several  late  collections. 
Judging  merely  from  the  titles,  the  books  of  the 
old  library  are  of  a  far  higher  class  than  those  of 
the  new.  Among  the  former  I  find  such  books 
as  "  Anabaptists,"  "  Arabia  Petrea,"  "  Allein's 
Alarm,"  "  Bible  Dictionary,"  "  Babylonish  Cap 
tivity,"  "Bible  Chronology,"  "Baxter's  Saint's 
Rest,"  "  Bible  not  of  Man,"  "  Bible  is  True," 
"  Bunyan's  Holy  War,"  "  Child's  Guide  through 
the  Bible."  In  the  modern  catalogues,  I  look  in 
vain  for  books  of  similar  substance.  The  greater 
number  are  pathetic  stories  of  little  girls  who  died 
and  who  ought  never  to  have  lived ;  scaring  stories 
of  little  boys  who  went  to  a  circus,  and  thence 
by  short  and  easy  stages  to  the  state-prison ;  fasci 
nating  stories  of  beautiful  misses  in  pure  white 
frocks,  who  suffered  the  horrors  of  remorse  for 
having  once  gone  to  the  opera  with  the  family 
where  they  were  visiting,  and  whose  penitent  and 
patient  sweetness  won  over  wicked  but  dark-eyed 
and  chivalrous  young  men  to  give  up  wickedness 
and  painting  and  take*holy  orders,  and  the  white- 
robed  girl  to  wife  ;  thrilling  stories  of  pious  lads 
who  rush  through  ridicule,  persuasion,  and  sun 
dry  forms  of  opposition,  converting  all  before 
them.  The  story,  as  a  form  of  entertainment  or 
instruction,  has  its  appointed  place,  and  is  open  to 


A   FOLLY  IN  ISRAEL.  45 

no  objection  ;  but  such  stories  as  run  riot  through 
our  Sunday-school  literature  are  neither  sweet  to 
the  taste  nor  to  be  desired  to  make  one  wise. 
They  do  not  appeal  to  the  imagination,  nor  to  the 
consciousness,  scarcely  at  all  to  the  conscience, 
nor  to  any  faculty  of  the  soul,  save  a  languid  curi 
osity  or  a  morbid  craving  for  sentiment.  Their 
work  is  doubly  harmful.  The  mind  cannot  long 
preserve  its  balance,  if  forced  to  subsist  on  any  one 
kind  of  food  ;  how  much  less  if  that  food  be  largely 
adulterated.  If  we  must  have  a  diet  composed 
chiefly  of  sugar-plums,  let  us  at  least  have  them  from 
established  factories,  where  we  may  be  sure  of  a 
good  article  of  its  kind,  and  not  content  ourselves 
with  a  sickly  concoction  of  sugar,  flour,  and  water, 
simmered  together  in  a  thousand  kitchen  kettles. 
The  lords  and  ladies  of  Waverley,  the  men  and 
women  of  Thackeray,  Trollope,  Mrs.  Stowe,  Miss 
Muloch,  or  George  Elliot,  would  be  a  great  im 
provement  on  the  interminable  procession  of 
Hatties  and  Katies  and  Nellies  and  Georgies  and 
Willies  and  Harries  that  now  mince  then.'  miss- 
ish  ways  over  the  library  shelves. 

But  must  we  have  only  sugar-plums?  Is  it 
necessary  that  we  confine  ourselves  to  stories? 
Must  we  leave  all  our  interesting  and  momentous 
Church  history  and  Bible  history  in  the  back 
ground,  and  give  ourselves  over  to  fifth-rate  ro 
mances?  Why  are  not  girls  and  boys  of  four 
teen,  fifteen,  twenty  years  of  age  occupied  with 


46  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

studying  the  story  of  their  own  Church,  inter 
woven  as  it  is  with  some  of  the  most  important 
political  crises  of  the  world?  Why  do  they  not 
study  the  scenery  and  history  of  the  Bible,  the 
customs  and  manners  of  Judaea,  which  throw  so 
much  light  on  Bible  narratives  ?  Why  do  they 
not  trace  back  the  paths  of  the  early  churches, 
which  would  make  the  Epistles  clear,  curious, 
and  practical  ?  Why  are  they  not  versed  in 
the  sinuosities  of  Hebrew  and  Greek  life,  that 
they  may  follow  the  Scriptural  sinuosities  through 
all  their  Divine  adaptations,  and  so  discern  their 
Divine  origin,  instead  of  viewing  the  Bible  as 
one  dead  and  dismal  level  of  practice  and  pre 
cept? 

It  is  said  that  they  will  read  such  books  as  they 
have,  and  others  they  will  not  read.  Of  course 
it  is  of  no  use  to  cumber  our  shelves  with  books 
that  will  never  be  touched.  Little  children  must 
have  little  stories,  and  larger  children  must  have 
larger  stories,  and  the  supply  only  answers  to 
the  demand.  But  if  the  argument  holds  good 
with  regard  to  Sunday-school  books,  it  holds  still 
better  with  regard  to  novels.  I  shall,  however,  be 
slow  to  believe  that  the  children  of  Christian 
parents  cannot  be  educated  into  higher  tastes.  If 
this  unsubstantial  but  highly  seasoned  food  were 
withheld  from  them,  I  cannot  but  think  they  would 
presently  come  to  a  healthy  appetite.  If  they 
turn  away  from  wholesome  bread  and  butter  and 


A   FOLLY  IN  ISRAEL.  41 

cry  for  tarts  and  jelly,  let  them  cry  till  they  are 
hungry,  and  then  the  bread  and  butter  will  have 
a  fair  chance  of  being  appreciated.  Turn  off 
entirely  the  "  weak,  washy,  everlasting  flood " 
of  sanctimonious  sentimentalism,  and  see  whether 
there  will  not  presently  be  a  return  to  the  living 
springs  of  the  Bible.  Provide  only  such  books  as 
have  in  them  material  for  thought.  If  they  be 
stories  of  character  and  development,  let  them  be 
true  to  human  life,  and  not  painted  caricatures. 
The  baptized  weaklings  who  tread  our  aisles  so 
softly  are  no  more  capable  of  healing  the  hurts  of 
the  infant  soul  with  their  theological  abracadabra 
than  were  the  sturdy  old  pagans  of  Haroun  al 
Raschid,  Sinbad  the  Sailor,  and  Mother  Goose.  If 
we  have  history  let  it  be  history,  not  the  diluted 
residuum  of  history.  The  pulling  down  of  a 
noble  work  to  bring  it  within  a  child's  reach  is 
little  less  than  sacrilege.  If  the  rugged,  simple, 
and  homely  English  of  the  Bedfordshire  tinker 
is  not  to  be  comprehended  by  the  youthful  reader, 
let  the  youthful  reader  comprehend  as  much  of 
it  as  he  can,  and  strive  assiduously  to  grow  up 
to  the  rest;  but  let  us  have  no  "Child's  Pil 
grim's  Progress,"  culling  for  him  the  flowers  which 
he  is  abundantly  able  to  cull  for  himself,  and 
permanently  spoiling  for  him  the  garden,  which 
his  own  hands  would  never  do.  For  the  youngest 
children  stories  need  to  be  just  as  true  to  nature, 
and  inculcations  just  as  firmly  founded  on  reason, 


48  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

as  for  their  elders.  There  are  also  the  inexhausti 
ble  narratives  of  the  Bible  told  in  language  as  fit 
and  simple  as  any  modern  writer  could  frame.  If 
paraphrase  be  necessary,  let  it  come  from  parental 
lips,  suggested  by  the  conditions  of  the  moment; 
but  it  is  a  most  venturesome  service  for  a  man  to 
sit  down  in  cold  blood  and  presume  to  clothe  Bible 
stories  in  better  guise  for  another  man's  children 
than  that  which  the  firesides  of  two  nations  and 
two  centuries  have  sanctified. 

Looking  at  this  whole  matter,  we  are  led  to 
conclude  that,  until  children  have  attained  suffi 
cient  intellectual  maturity  to  be  able  to  investi 
gate  a  question,  to  approach  it  and  attend  to  it 
from  no  external  pressure,  but  from  inward  en 
thusiasm,  the  Sunday  school  must  be  an  injury 
to  them,  and  an  injury  in  vital  points.  It  mars 
a  delicacy  which  cannot  be  too  devoutly  de 
fended.  The  more  intimate  the  sensitiveness,  the 
more  fatal  its  violation.  A  shop  plundered  is  but 
robbery ;  a  church  rifled  is  sacrilege.  I  cannot 
conceive  of  an  institution  which  should  promise 
any  benefit  that  could  counterbalance  the  harm  of 
a  separation  on  Sunday  between  parents  and  young 
children,  and  especially  the  harm  of  putting  the 
religious  life  of  children  at  the  mercy  of  strangers. 
On  other  days  the  conduct  of  affairs  requires  sep 
aration,  and  seems  to  require,  for  the  sake  of 
economy,  a  partial  transfer  of  duty ;  but  the  Lord 
blessed  the  Sabbath  day  and  hallowed  it,  —  hal- 


A   FOLLY  IN  ISRAEL.  '  49 

lowed  it  for  home,  for  rest,  for  privacy ;  hallowed 
it  for  sanctification  of  the  past  and  redemption  of 
the  future ;  for  the  divine  work  of  the  week  to 
blossom  in  the  blessed,  beautiful  worship  of  the 
holy  Christian  family.  For  many  parents  it  is  the 
only  day  which  they  can  spend  with  their  little 
ones,  and  no  work  but  of  necessity  or  mercy 
should  be  allowed  to  interfere  with  it. 

Mission  schools  stand,  it  will  readily  be  seen, 
on  different  ground.  As  the  state  of  war,  which 
is  a  retrogression  for  the  North,  is  an  advance 
towards  civilization  for  the  South,  so  the  state 
of  being  in  Sunday  school,  which  is  a  desecra 
tion  of  the  Christian  Sabbath,  is  a  consecration  of 
the  pagan  no-Sabbath.  To  gather  poor  little  va 
grants  from  their  gutters  and  alleys  into  decent 
rooms,  and  teach  them  mental,  moral,  and  Chris 
tian  truth,  is  a  very  different  thing  from  luring 
children  away  from  the  privacy  of  Christian  homes 
into  the  glare  and  distraction  of  mixed  assemblies. 

To  adults,  —  to  all  who  are  old.  enough  to  pur 
sue  a  subject  systematically,  —  a  Sunday  service 
conducted  on  the  theory  of  the  Sunday  school 
can  hardly  fail  to  be  of  great  value.  If,  instead  of 
our  present  superficial  desultory  reading,  which 
is  our  main  reliance,  outside  the  pulpit,  for  theo 
logical  thought,  and  wlu'ch  greatly  detracts  even 
from  the  benefit  of  pulpit  ministrations,  the  rank 
and  file  of  the  churches,  all  the  grown  men  and 
women,  were  engaged,  under  the  leadership  of 


50  SKIRMISHES  AX  It   SKETCHES. 

some  persons  of  superior  knowledge  and  culture, 
and  of  tact,  candor,  and  reverence,  in  the  careful, 
critical,  and  devout  study  of  the  Bible  ;  a  study 
which  should  at  once  enlist  and  cultivate  energy, 
attention,  and  all  the  powers  of  research  at  the 
command  of  ordinary  minds  ;  a  study  which  should 
enable  men  to  discern  between  Bible  teachings 
and  human  traditions,  between  what  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ  said  and  what  commentators  declare 
him  to  mean,  between  the  inspiration  of  the  Holy 
Spirit  and  the  inspiration  of  unholy  pride  of  opin 
ion,  or  partisan  violence,  or  innocent  prejudice ; 
a  study  which  should  be  study,  and  not  a  travesty 
of  it ;  investigation,  not  gossip ;  man's  work,  not 
child's  play,  —  we  might  hope  that  religious 
thought  would  be  reawakened,  religious  feeling 
deepened  and  made  effective,  religious  principle 
strengthened  and  wisely  directed.  (This  would 
be  a  very  different  thing  from  that  movement 
which  is  now  so  warmly  advocated  and  so  stoutly 
opposed,  —  the  substitution  of  the  Sunday  school  in 
its  present  form  for  the  afternoon  sermon  and  ser 
vice.  It  is  easy  to  conceive  the  scorn  with  which 
a  divine  "  of  the  old  school "  should  look  upon  this 
proposed  encroachment  of  the  new.)  Children  ac 
companying  their  parents  through  such  an  exercise 
would  be  no  more  wearied  than  by  any  ordinary 
Sunday  service,  and  would  naturally  and  gradu 
ally,  as  their  minds  unfolded,  be  drawn  into  sym 
pathy  with  it,  and  derive  from  it  an  advantage 


A   FOLLY  IN  ISRAEL.  51 

proportioned  to  their  capacity.  Not  turned  loose 
among  themselves,  they  would  have  small  tempta 
tion  to  deviate  from  that  propriety  of  demeanor 
which  the  day  and  the  occasion  demand,  and 
which,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Turveydrop,  is  no  unim 
portant  element  of  good  morals  as  well  as  good 
breeding.  The  lore  learned  by  parents  from  the 
oracles  of  God  would  be  taught  with  fatherly 
and  motherly  love  to  the  little  ones  at  home. 
The  meat  of  the  Gospel,  in  the  alembic  of  the 
parental  heart,  would  be  transmuted  into  the 
pure  and  sincere  milk  of  the  word,  by  which 
young  souls  should  increase  in  wisdom  and  stat 
ure,  and  in  favor  with  God  and  man.  Chil 
dren  whose  parents  are  members  of  the  congre 
gation  and  not  of  the  church  would  be  gather 
ing  religious  instruction  along  with  their  parents ; 
and  the  parents  themselves,  no  longer  able  to 
lean  upon  some  teacher,  who,  though  consciously 
incompetent  to  cure  the  child's  soul,  is  con 
sciously  competent  to  salve  the  parent's  con 
science,  would  be  far  more  likely  to  think  upon 
their  ways,  and  turn  both  their  own  and  their 
children's  feet  unto  the  testimonies  of  God.  In 
stead  of  laboring  to  bring  children  into  the  Sun 
day  school,  we  should  be  laboring  to  bring  fam 
ilies  ;  and  the  solitary  children  who  might  be 
drawn  in  would  be  distributed  among  families,  and 
be  watched  over  as  children  by  parents,  instead  of 
being  herded  together  as  pupils  under  the  care  of 


52  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

a  perplexed  amateur  teacher.  We  should  at  least 
know  that  sacred  things  would  be  cherished  in 
sacred  places  ;  and  besides  whatever  positive  good 
were  accomplished,  we  should  be  spared  the  pain 
of  seeing  religious  sentiment  defloured  before  it  is 
developed. 


IV. 


A    LANDMARK    REMOVED. 


!)  HEN  the  wires  flashed  across  the 
countiy  the  brief  tidings,  "  Owen 
Lovejoy  died  last  night  at  half  past 
eleven,"  many  hearts  must  have  sadly 
felt  that  he  died  too  soon.  It  was  not  only  that  he 
was  in  the  prime  of  life,  in  the  full  maturity  of 
his  powers,  with  many  a  hard  fight  still  in  his 
strong  right  arm,  but  that  the  battle-flag  fell  from 
his  dying  grasp  Avhile  yet  the  strife  was  hot.  The 
victory  toward  which  he  had  all  his  life  been  press 
ing  hovered  before  his  eyes,  but  could  not  perch 
upon  his  banner,  and  he  passed  away  with  the  war- 
cry  still  ringing  in  his  ears.  But  our  regrets  are  as 
needless  as  vain.  "  It  is  not  the  victory,  but  the 
struggle,  that  makes  the  happiness  of  noble  hearts." 
He  was  called  away  in  his  prime,  but  his  work  was 
done.  There  was  a  time  when  he  was  needed. 
He  is  needed  no  longer.  There  was  a  time  when 
Liberty  passed  through  the  land  with  a  staff;  now 
she  is  become  two  bands  that  stretch  across  a  conti- 


54  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

nent.  From  shore  to  shore  the  echoes  of  her  voice 
resound,  and  deep  calleth  unto  deep. 

Through  the  hillside  hamlets  of  New  England 
and  the  prairies  of  the  West,  here  and  there, 
years  ago,  was  found  a  man  with  an  impracti 
cable  twist  in  his  character;  all  together  they 
were  not  enough  to  do  anything,  but  they  were 
quite  enough  to  hinder  other  people  from  doing 
anything,  —  sturdy,  indomitable  men  ;  sometimes 
speaking  aloud  with  eloquent  lips  to  the  utter 
thwarting  and  discomfiture  of  those  whose  great 
principle  it  was  to  float  with  the  current,  and  some 
times  bearing  testimony  only  by  a  silent,  stubborn 
refusal  to  pour  libations  at  the  shrine  of  others' 
idolatry.  But  they  were  mighty  men  of  valor 
in  their  generations.  They  buckled  on  armor 
and  girded  sword  for  the  war.  There  was  no 
place  nor  power  nor  pelf  to  lure  easy-goers  or  the 
devotees  of  pride  and  ambition.  All  who  em 
barked  with  them  must  sail  in  the  teeth  of  wind 
and  tide.  They  met  somewhat  sharper  than  swords, 
nothing  warmer  than  contemptuous  compassion. 
Their  neighbors,  who  were  kindly  disposed  and 
fain  to  defend  them,  said  they  were  good  men, 
but  mulish.  Their  hearts  were  in  the  right  place, 
but  their  heads  were  clean  given  over  to  one  idea. 
That  idea  has  become  a  great  mountain,  and  filled 
the  whole  earth. 

Rufus  Choate,  in  one  of  his  impassioned .  ad 
dresses,  represented  the  two  parties  of  Whigs  and 


A   LANDMARK  REMOVED.  55 

Democrats  as  sweeping  the  ocean  with  their  ships 
of  the  line  wherein  were  marshalled  the  forces  of  a 
mighty  nation,  "  except  a  few  Free-Soilers  whose 
bark  was  never  built  to  brave  the  stormy  sea, 
but  only  to  traverse  the  solitudes  of  the  serene 
upper  air."  But  the  Whig  Ocean  Queen  has 
gone  down,  and  not  so  much  as  a  floating  spar 
reveals  where  she  sank.  The  Democratic  three- 
decker  has  parted  her  keel,  and  many  a  splintered 
fragment  goes  careering  madly  over  the  waves 
to  tell  of  the  wild  work  that  has  been ;  while  the 
part  that  is  afloat  keeps  close  alongside  the  little 
Free-Soil  craft,  now  a  mighty  man-of-war,  flying 
the  flag  of  a  nation  at  its  mast-head,  bearing  in  its 
bosom  the  hope  of  the  world. 

On  such  a  seemingly  frail  craft,  with  such  a 
seemingly  insufficient  crew,  Owen  Lovejoy  em 
barked  and  did  soldierly  service.  He  plunged 
into  the  "  thunder-storm  of  battle  "  for  moral 
right,  not  personal  revenge.  He  fought  for  love 
of  man,  not  hatred.  Doubtless,  the  death  of  his 
brother  at  the  hands  of  Slavery  intensified,  but  it 
did  not  create,  his  horror  of  the  accursed  thing. 
When  the  sword  pierced  his  own  soul,  it  did  not 
awake  him  from  a  dream  ;  it  only  made  him  grasp 
more  firmly  the  blade  he  had  chosen  so  wisely, 
and  wielded  so  well.  All  his  life  he  walked 
along  the  heights  of  eternal  justice,  and,  whether 
with  fierce  denunciation,  or  with  a  gentle  persua 
sion,  he  bade  his  fellows,  Come  up  hither.  As 


56  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

a  pastor  he  preached  the  Gospel  of  the  true  Mes 
siah,  whose  glad  tidings  were  to  loose  the  bands  of 
wickedness,  to  undo  the  heavy  burdens,  to  let  the 
oppressed  go  free,  to  break  every  yoke,  to  deal 
bread  to  the  hungry,  to  bring  in  the  poor  that  are 
cast  out,  and  to  cover  the  naked.  But  the  pulpit 
was  too  far  from  the  wrong,  and  his  attack  seemed 
to  him  feeble  from  distance.  He  longed  to  lay  at 
the  very  heart  of  the  man  of  sin  ;  and  putting 
from  him,  with  no  irreverent  hand,  the  robes  of 
his  priesthood,  he  gave  himself  thenceforth  to  the 
one  cause  of  freeing  his  country  and  the  slave  from 
the  curse  that  bound  them  both.  The  two  stood 
as  one  in  his  conscience  and  in  his  heart.  He 
could  not  walk  to  his  country's  greatness  over  "  the 
friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men,"  even  though 
they  were  black.  He  sought  both  to  raise  a  pros 
trate  and  free  an  enslaved  race,  and  to  raise  and 
free  the  race  that  humbled  itself  to  the  dust  in  com 
passing  such  prostration  and  enslavement.  Labor 
ing  as  a  patriot  and  a  statesman  for  large  ends,  he 
did  not  overlook  smaller  ones.  He  did  not  forget 
the  individual  in  the  race.  Not  only  has  the  black 
man  cause  to  bless  his  name  and  memory,  but  black 
men  and  women  and  little  children  recall  him  as  a 
benefactor.  It  was  meet  that  a  negro,  a  freedman, 
should  aid  in  bearing  his  body  to  its  final  resting- 
place,  for  he  maintained  the  cause  of  the  negro  at 
all  times  as  the  matter  required. 

He  has  gone  over  to  the  majority,  but  not  too 


A   LANDMARK  REMOVED.  57 

soon.  His  eye  was  not  dim,  nor  his  natural  force 
abated.  The  years  had  taken  no  firmness  from 
his  step,  no  clearness  from  his  judgment,  no  hope 
from  his  heart.  He  had  travelled  through  the 
wilderness  his  forty  years,  and  he  might  not  enter 
the  Land  of  Promise,  but  the  Lord  had  led  him  up 
from  the  plains  of  Moab  unto  the  mountain  of 
Nebo,  to  the  top  of  Pisgah,  and  showed  him  fair 
Canaan,  and  he  saw  that  rest  was  good,  and  the 
land  that  it  was  pleasant. 

His  fame,  too,  is  assured,  —  such  honorable  fame 
as  befits  honorable  work,  such  fame  as  good  men 
love.  In  the  days  that  are  to  come,  when  even 
Ethiopia,  in  the  land  of  her  captivity  and  her 
redemption,  shall  stretch  out  her  hands  unto  God, 
not  last  nor  faintly  outlined  among  the  names 
which  she  will  delight  to  honor  shall  stand  this 
name  which  we  sadly  pronounce  to-day.  Nor  has 
he  died  too  soon  for  his  fame  among  his  own 
people.  He  has  gone  over  to  the  majority  as  the 
ancients  held  it,  but  in  our  later  phrase  the  major 
ity  has  gone  over  to  him.  The  people  have 
climbed  up  to  where  their  leaders  stood.  Not  his 
courage,  —  that  was  never  questioned,  —  but  his 
wisdom  is  vindicated.  There  is  no  need  to  say 
what  will  be.  Men  see  now  that  what  they 
thought  fanaticism  was  the  true  sagacity.  Optical 
illusion  was  clear  vision.  The  solemn  claims  of 
justice,  and  love,  and  human  brotherhood  were  at 
one  with  the  claims  of  honor,  and  purse,  and  the 

3* 


58  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

naked  needs  of  existence,  nay,  even  of  existence 
itself.  He  asserted  and  defended  those  claims 
manfully,  Christianly;  and  the  generation  that 
scorned  and  scoffed  is  forward  to-day  to  wreathe  a 
glory  round  his  brow. 

The  world  will  do  justice  to  his  bravery,  his 
single  -  mindedness,  his  statesmanship  ;  but  the 
softer  lights  that  played  around  his  soul  it  had 
scarcely  space  to  see.  There  is  small  shining  for 
dewdrops  when  lightnings  flash.  The  occasion 
was  so  earnest,  that  he  was  fain  to  cry  aloud  and 
spare  not.  It  is  as  a  reformer,  as  a  champion,  as  a 
knight  without  fear  and  without  reproach,  that  he 
is  known  and  lamented. 

"  Fleet  foot  on  the  correi, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber !  " 

But  the  firelight  from  household  hearths  that  fell 
upon  him  revealed  a  gentle  grace,  a  happy  humor, 
wit  lambent,  unfailing,  but  harmless  ;  a  heart 
which,  far  away,  clung  to  all  the  little  tendernesses 
of  home.  Brave  old  war-horse  that  he  was,  snuffing 
the  battle  from  afar,  a  little  child  could  lead  him, 
and  be  no  tenderer  than  he  !  Brawny  and  huge, 
no  footfall  was  softer  than  his,  no  voice  more  low 
and  quiet.  Roused  sometimes,  even  in  the  pleas 
ure  of  social  talk,  to  indignation  and  loud-voiced 
eloquence  over  the  wickedness  which  it  was  his 
life-trust  to  combat,  he  was  always  tolerant  of  the 


A   LANDMARK  REMOVED.  59 

hand  that  pulled  the  valve-string  of  his  balloon, 
and  he  ever  came  earthward  again  with  a  half- 
ashamed  smile,  with  a  deprecatory  look,  or  a  mock 
ferocious  threat.  He  was  such  a  good-natured, 
sleepy-eyed  lion,  roaring  you  so  gently,  for  all  his 
shaggy  strength,  so  meek  and  submissive  and  long- 
suffering,  when  his  antagonisms  were  lulled  asleep, 
and  he  could,  with  good  conscience,  take  his  ease 
among  his  friends,  that  he  was  an  irresistible  tar 
get  for  teasing.  The  harder  the  storm  of  banter 
and  browbeating  that  pelted  him,  the  more  he 
enjoyed  it,  nor  ever  a  ripple  broke  the  surface  of 
his  large-hearted  placidity.  No  sharper  weapon 
than  a  Latin  epigram,  or  a  verse  from  Virgil,  or 
some  quiet  little  home-bent  blade  did  he  ever 
draw  upon  his  assailants,  but  so  apt  and  ready 
was  he  with  these  small  arms  that  he  generally 
came  off  victorious.  But  conquered  or  conqueror, 
his  good  nature  was  invincible.  The  low,  deliber 
ate  voice,  the  quaintnesses  of  word  and  manner, 
the  smile,  so  mingled  of  amusement,  assumed  tol 
eration,  real  enjoyment,  and  all  manner  of  good 
wit  and  good  will,  were  never  wanting,  nor  will 
their  memory  fail.  As  the  necessity  for  hostilities 
grew  less,  as  truth  marched  on  to  triumph,  as 
righteousness  and  peace  approached  to  kiss  eacli 
other,  and  the  sorrowful  land  returned  again  to 
the  allegiance  to  which  the  fathers  bound  her,  and 
from  which  traitorous  sons  had  dragged  her,  his 
genial  qualities  would  have  had  opportunity  to  bios- 


60  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

som  out  into  the  light,  and  to  soften  what  seemed 
rugged  in  his  character.  The  rock  would  have 
been  no  less  firm,  but  it  would  have  been  draped 
with  all  graces  of  bloom  and  spray.  His  inner 
and  outer,  his  private  and  public  life,  would  have 
blended  into  harmony,  and  he  would  have  been 
known  for  the  man  he  was. 

Now  the  harmony  is  complete  ;  but,  alas !  eye 
and  ear  fail  us  to  perceive  it. 

On  the  hillsides  of  New  England,  on  the  prai 
ries  of  the  West,  beyond  the  sea,  among  the  pal 
aces  of  forgotten  kings,  there  are  hearts  that  will 
fondly  linger  over  the  memory  of  pleasant  even 
ings  which  return  no  more. 

With  many  a  prayer  for  those  to  whom  morn 
ing  and  evening  rest  alike  in  shadow,  a  friendly 
hand  lays  this  wreath  of  forget-me-nots  upon  his 
new-made  grave. 


V. 


DOUBTFUL    ARGUMENTS. 


is  but  natural,  it  is  indeed  every  way- 
imperative,  that  men  who  are  called 
upon  to  preach  a  doctrine  of  import  so 
fearful  as  that  of  the  eternal  punish 
ment  of  the  impenitent,  should  make  constant 
efforts  to  explain  its  necessity  and  enforce  its 
reasonableness.  God's  character  seems  to  be  con 
cerned,  and  those  who  reverence  his  great  and 
fearful  name,  and  strive  to  bring  it  to  the  regard 
of  the  world,  cannot  fa.il  to  vindicate  it  against 
every  possible  stain  of  injustice,  by  trying  to  show 
that  even  in  this  most  awful  of  all  the  doctrines  of 
the  Church,  justice,  no  less  than  judgment,  is  the 
habitation  of  his  throne.  The  attempt  to  do  so  is 
always  praiseworthy,  though  not  always  wisely 
directed.  Some  of  the  arguments  are  of  such  a 
nature  that  they  can  hardly  convince,  and  must, 
therefore,  strengthen  the  opposition  which  they  are 
designed  to  destroy. 
»To  the  assertion  that  so  small  a  thing  as  the  sin 


62  SKIR^f^SIfES  AXD   SKETCHES. 

which  a  man  may  commit  in  the  few  years  of  life 
cannot  righteously  be  punished  hy  unalleviated 
misery  through  unending  years,  a  very  common 
reply  is,  that  sin  may  be  a  much  more  terrible 
thing  than  we  know.  It  may  cause  derangement 
and  disaster  through  worlds  and  ages,  of  which 
we  have  no  conception.  We  see  but  in  part ;  the 
All-Seeing  considers  not  simply  our  act  of  trans 
gression,  but  all  its  far-reaching  consequences,  and 
punishes  according  to  his  sight,  not  ours. 

Is  this  explanation  quite  satisfactory,  even  as  far 
as  it  goes  ?  Is  it  according  to  analogy  ?  You  may 
say  that  it  seems  to  the  strong  man  a  very  small 
thing  to  sit  a  few  moments  in  a  draught  of  air ; 
nevertheless  in  those  few  moments  are  sown  the 
seeds  of  a  disease  which  presently  brings  him  to 
the  grave.  A  little  child  does  not  know  why  he 
is  bidden  to  play  within  the  garden  paling  ;  but 
thoughtlessly  straying  beyond,  he  plunges  down  a 
precipice  into  the  engulfing  waters.  Law  is  in 
exorable  ;  its  penalties  must  be  enforced. 

So  far  as  pertains  to  physical  matters,  the  analogy 
seems  to  hold.  If  a  man  commits  a  trespass  against 
material  laws,  it  matters  not  whether  he  did  it  wil 
fully  or  ignorantly,  he  incurs  the  penalty.  There 
is  no  exemption.  But  in  moral,  and  even  in  civil 
law,  another  rule  obtains.  An  infant  is  suffering 
from  ear-ache.  Too  young  for  self-control  or  in 
telligent  consciousness,  in  a  frenzy  of  pain  and  pas 
sion,  its  little  hands  strike  wildly  out  at  the  lovirtg 


DOUBTFUL  ARGUMENTS.  G3 

mother,  who  shares  the  anguish  which  she  cannot 
relieve.  What  an  act  is  this,  if  intelligently  done  ! 
What  a  monster  of  iniquity  and  ingratitude  is  the 
child  to  turn  against  the  heart  which  aches  with 
pity,  against  the  hands  which  never  weary  with 
striving  to  mitigate  his  suffering,  to  expend  all  his 
little  rages  on  the  bosom  that  yearns  to  soothe  him 
into  peace  !  The  natural  law  of  love  and  the 
Scriptural  command  to  honor  are  alike  violated. 
Does  he  suffer  the  penalty  which  attaches  to  such 
double  violation  ?  Does  any  one  consider  him 
unnaturally  bad,  and  deserving  the  severest  repro 
bation,  as  would  infallibly  be  the  case  if  he  knew 
what  he  was  doing  ?  On  the  contrary,  his  ig 
norance  is  his  adequate  excuse.  He  has  no  sus 
picion  that  he  is  breaking  the  fifth  commandment 
and  verging  upon  the  crime  of  matricide  ;  and 
because  he  knows  nothing  of  all  this,  we  —  do  not 
justify  laws  which  mete  out  to  him  the  punish 
ment  due  to  such  sin  and  crime,  but  we  rather 
count  it,  therefore,  a  trivial  thing,  to  be  overlooked 
rather  than  forgiven,  to  stand  not  at  all  in  the 
way  of  every  possible  well-doing  towards  the  suf 
fering  child.  We  should  say  the  mother  was  of 
a  very  harsh  temper  who  should  suffer  her  indig 
nation  to  be  roused,  and  very  weak  who  should 
permit  her  feelings  to  be  wounded,  by  such  an  ex 
hibition  on  the  part  of  her  unwitting  little  one. 

This,  of  course,  is  not,  and  is  not  intended  to  be, 
a  strictly  parallel  case.     We  can  have  no  parallel 


64  SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

case,  for  the  Lord  our  God  is  one  Lord,  and  there 
is  none  like  him  ;  but  it  may  help  us  to  the  truth. 
We  shall  get  still  nearer  the  truth  if  we  take  an 
instance  of  conscious  ill-doing.  A  man  is  your 
enemy,  and  designs  to  inflict  harm  upon  you.  He 
means  to  increase  his  own  wealth  at  the  expense 
of  yours.  But  he  opens  his  eyes  one  day  to  find 
that  his  dislike  to  you  was  unfounded,  that  you 
were  his  benefactor  when  he  thought  you  his 
tyrant,  sympathizing  when  he  thought  you  un 
feeling  ;  and  to  find,  also,  that  your  hurt  is  far 
greater  than  he  intended,  that  in  depriving  you 
of  your  property  he  reduced  your  family  to  beg 
gary,  took  away  your  staff  of  life,  and  brought 
you  to  the  gates  of  death.  His  guilt  is  great ;  it 
is  difficult  to  measure  ;  but  do  you  think  it  is  just 
as  great  as  it  would  be  if,  instead  of  unwittingly 
firing  this  mischievous  train,  he  had  with  malice 
aforethought  set  the  match  to  the  powder  ?  If 
you  can  say  in  your  heart,  Bitter  as  was  my  foe, 
he  never  would  have  done  this  had  he  known  what 
such  doing  meant ;  he  never  would  have  done  this 
had  he  known  my  real  character  and  my  relations 
to  himself,  —  do  you  not  attach  less  blame  to  him 
than  if  you  see  his  hand  deliberately  lifted  to  every 
successive  injurious  act,  his  eyes  open  to  all  their 
results  and  to  the  full  integrity  and  innocency  of 
the  person  against  whom  every  fresh  expression  of 
his  malignity  is  directed  ?  Is  it  not  true,  that,  in 
stead  of  visiting  moral  reprobation  and  punishment 


DOUBTFUL  ARGUMENTS.  65 

strictly  in  proportion  to  the  dimensions  of  the  act, 
we  diminish  it  in  proportion  to  the  man's  ignorance 
of  those  dimensions? 

In  the  manifestation  of  the  world's  worst  wicked 
ness,  when  Evil  laid  its  hand  upon  the  only  Good, 
and  requited  beneficence  with  crucifixion,  what  les 
son  fell  from  holy  lips,  what  prayer  went  up  to  the 
Heaven  of  heavens  ?  "  Father,  forgive  them,  for 
they  know  not  what  they  do." 

Paul,  who  was  not  one  whit  behind  the  very 
chiefest  apostles,  who  though  brought  up  at  the 
feet  of  Gamaliel  according  to  the  perfect  manner 
of  the  law  of  the  fathers,  was  yet  so  overpowered 
with  the  excellency  of  the  glory  which  met  him  on 
the  way  to  Damascus,  that  he  gave  up  all  reliance 
on  excellency  of  speech  or  of  wisdom,  and  deter 
mined  to  know  nothing  among  his  congregation 
but  Jesus  Christ  and  him  crucified,  —  even  he  be 
lieved  that  the  hidden  wisdom  which  God  ordained 
before  the  world  unto  our  glory  could  not  have 
been  known  to  the  princes  of  this  world,  "  For," 
he  insists,  out  of  his  great,  loving  heart,  with  in 
finite  pity  and  yearning,  "  For  had  they  known  it, 
they  would  not  have  crucified  the  Lord  of  glory." 
And  if  Paul,  transfigured  forevermore  in  the  light 
that  shined  round  about  him  from  heaven,  could 
find  a  good  word,  a  regretful  word,  an  excusing 
word,  to  say  for  those  who  had  done  the  foulest 
deed  that  ever  stained,  or  ever  can  stain,  the  records 
of  our  earth,  —  nay,  if  the  Sinless  One,  knowing  to 


66  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

the  utmost  the  indignity  put  upon  the  Most  High, 
could  crave  forgiveness  for  the  criminals  on  tire 
very  ground  that  they  knew  it  not,  —  shall  we  be 
lieve  an  angel  from  heaven  if  he  preach  any  other 
gospel  ?  Shall  we  not  rather  give  good  heed  to  the 
lesson  which  teaches  that  God  is  not  strict  to  mark 
our  iniquities  to  the  farthest  bounds  of  their  conse 
quences,  and  that  man,  defiled,  degraded,  outcast, 
instead  of  being  punished  for  the  baleful  work 
which  he  wrought  unawares,  shall  be  the  more 
likely  to  obtain  mercy,  because  he  did  it  ignorantly, 
in  unbelief?  . 

I  know  that  this  truth  has  its  corresponding 
falsehood,  which  may  be  mistaken  for  it  by  the 
unwary.  Ignorance  itself  may  be  a  sin.  But  it 
is  no  more  likely  to  be  a  sin  now  than  it  was  in 
the  days  of  Christ ;  and  if  Jesus  and  his  great  apos 
tle  to  the  Gentiles  ventured  to  make  the  statement, 
running  the  risk  of  men's  wresting  it  to  their  own 
destruction,  it  cannot  be  unsafe  for  us  to  follow 
their  example.  Moreover,  there  is  always  less 
danger  to  be  apprehended  from  the  abuse  of  truth 
than  from  the  use  of  falsehood. 

Another  argument  frequently  brought  forward 
in  proof  of  the  doctrine  of  eternal  punishment,  and 
lately  published  widely  in  the  newspapers,  with  the 
indorsement  of  some  distinguished  archbishop,  is, 
that  in  the  original  Greek  of  the  Bible  the  same 
word  is  used  to  express  the  duration  of  the  happi 
ness  of  the  righteous  and  of  the  misery  of  the 


DOUBTFUL  ARGUMENTS.  67 

wicked ;  so  that  the  interpretation  which  revokes 
the  doom  of  the  latter  sweeps  away  the  bliss  of 
the  former.  If  we  will  abrogate  the  threat  of 
unending  woe,  we  must  also  abrogate  the  promise 
of  unending  happiness. 

This  argument  must  be  understood  as  addressed 
to  the  Church,  not  to  the  world ;  to  those  who  are 
confident,  not  to  those  who  are  careless,  of  eternal 
life.  For  the  man  who  does  not  purpose  to  attain 
heaven  has  but  a  small  interest  in  its  existence.  If 
he  has  only  wretchedness  in  store,  or  if  he  has  no 
definite  future  hopes,  the  reality  of  a  place  of 
happiness  is  the  last  thing  about  which  he  will  con 
cern  himself,  is  a  matter  which  furnishes  him  with 
no  motive,  and  influences  neither  his  belief  nor  his 
life.  It  is  the  Church,  the  people  who  believe 
in  and  who  are  supposed  to  be  pressing  towards 
heaven,  who  are  addressed  in  such  appeals. 

And  I  for  one  accept  the  issue,  — if  I  understand 
it  aright.  If  by  giving  up  the  certainty  of  future 
bliss  for  ourselves  we  could  also  be  relieved  of  the 
certainty  of  future  woe  for  another,  we  should  not 
only  relinquish  it  with  gladness  and  singleness  of 
heart,  praising  God,  but  we  should  esteem  our 
selves  of  all  men  most  miserable,  most  vilely  self 
ish,  if  we  could  for  a  moment  hesitate  to  do  it. 
Look  at  what  is  set  before  us.  On  the  one  side 
there  are  spared  to  us  of  the  Bible  its  precepts,  its 
examples,  its  ideals.  We  have  the  story  of  the 
spotless  life,  the  sacrificial  death.  We  know  what 


68  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

is  the  character  of  God,  what  is  the  type  of  hu 
man  character  in  which  he  delights,  and  what  the 
path  he  has  traced  for  human  feet.  We  know,  in 
short,  what  is  right  and  well-pleasing  in  his  eyes. 
What  does  a  man  need  more  than  this  ?  Can  he 
not  trust  his  Maker  without  guaranty?  Must 
God  give  bonds  for  the  final  disposal  of  the  soul 
which  strives  to  be  like  him  ;  for  the  destination 
reserved  to  those  who  walk  his  appointed  paths? 
Cannot  faith  trust  implicitly  in  goodness  ?  With 
abundant  promises  of  help,  can  we  not  dispense 
with  promises  of  happiness  ?  It  seems  to  me  that 
we  might  take  away  from  the  Bible  every  direct 
prediction  of  future  unending  bliss,  of  that  which  is 
commonly  understood  as  heaven,  and  then  leave 
enough  to  stand  on  and  defy  a  thousand  hells. 
To  do  his  will  is  to  enter  into  his  rest.  He  who 
receives  Christ  into  his  heart  is  in  heaven  already. 
The  true  disciple  is  dead ;  no  harm  can  happen  to 
him :  his  life  is  hid  with  Christ  in  God ;  and  that 
which  is  so  hid  must  be  forever  beyond  reach  of 
the  powers  of  evil.  Who  is  he  of  man  or  devils, 
principalities  of  earth  or  air,  that  can  harm  you,  if 
ye  be  followers  of  that  which  is  good  ?  A  truce 
to  our  shadowy  Mohammedan  heaven  !  The  king 
dom  of  God  is  within  you.  He  that  has  the 
testimony  within  himself  that  he  pleases  God, 
may  laugh  to  scorn  the  hope  that  hangs  on  a 
promise. 

Do  you  say,  then,  whv  were  the  promises  given  ? 


DOUBTFUL  ARGUMENTS.  69 

Tell  me  first,  why  did  the  father  go  out  to  meet 
the  prodigal  son  when  he  was  yet  a  great  way  off? 
Why  are  a  thousand  seeds  scattered  for  every  tree 
that  grows?  Why  is  the  love  of  our  heavenly 
Father  not  doled  out  after  our  scant  mortal  meas 
ure,  but  lavished  with  the  profusion  of  boundless 
benignity  ? 

On  the  other  side  what  ?  Eternal  impurity, 
eternal  rebellion.  Eternal  looking  backward  upon 
unrepented  sin ;  eternal  looking  forward  to  accu 
mulated  guilt.  On  every  side  judgment  and  fiery 
indignation.  Infinite  regret,  but  no  penitence  ; 
infinite  rage,  and  no  power ;  infinite  rebellion,  and 
no  reconciliation  ;  infinite  remorse,  no  forgiveness  ; 
infinite  agony,  without  hope,  for  millions  upon  mil 
lions  of  sensitive  souls,  born  with  no  volition  of 
their  own  into  circumstances  not  subject  to  their 
control ;  moulded  by  evil  for  evil  before  they  were 
capable  of  resisting,  or  even  of  recognizing  evil ;  all 
the  horror  and  hate  of  time  duplicating  and  redupli 
cating  themselves  forever  and  forever  through  the 
countless  ages  of  eternity.  What  price  would  be 
too  great  to  pay  for  the  possibility  of  escape  from 
the  infinite  despair  of  such  a  prospect  ?  We  see  the 
work  of  evil  begun  in  this  world  ;  we  seem  to  see 
in  its  beginning  the  elements  of  perpetual  repro 
duction.  The  Divine  revelation  of  the  Word  and 
the  demoniac  revelation  of  wickedness  seem  to 
point  in  the  same  direction :  but  if  in  the  path  of 
ultimate  restoration  there  stood  no  greater  obstacle 


70  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

than  indefiniteness  regarding  the  duration  of  the 
Christian  heaven,  if  the  oracles  of  God  could  be 
softened  down  to  meet  a  surrender  of  that  which 
is  only  sweet  but  not  essential,  what  radiance  of 
unspeakable  hope  would  arise !  By  some  way 
which  we  know  not,  through  the  introduction  of 
some  power  whose  workings  we  had  never  beheld, 
by  some  brighter  vision  of  the  love  of  the  atoning 
Saviour  than  the  earth  had  ever  yet  witnessed,  we 
should  be  sure  that  the  wandering  sheep  would 
finally  be  brought  back  into  the  fold.  It  was  more 
than  any  promise,  which  Moses  relinquished : 
"  Yet  now,  if  thou  wilt  forgive  their  sin  — ;  and  if 
not,  blot  me,  I  pray  thee,  out  of  thy  book  which 
thou  hast  written."  Commentators  have  found 
trouble  in  explaining  this  passage,  but  it  needs  not 
to  be  explained  to  those  who  go  to  the  Bible  for 
truths,  not  texts,  and  carry  thither  the  hearts 
which  God  gave  them.  It  is  but  the  instinctive 
cry  of  the  clinging,  loving  human  soul,  —  the 
"  Would  God  I  had  died  for  thee  !  "  Paul  felt  it 
in  the  great  heaviness  and  continual  sorrow  .in  his 
heart :  "  For  I  could  wish  myself  accursed  from 
Christ  for  my  brethren,  my  kinsmen  according  to 
the  flesh."  All  understand  it  who  have  ever  felt 
the  throbbing  of  human  brotherhood.  In  this 
world  we  can  bear  the  pain  and  peril  of  those  we 
love,  the  groan  and  travail  of  creation.  We  soothe 
our  sympathy  with  active  effort,  and  hope,  unrea 
sonable  perhaps,  but  spontaneous  and  irresistible, 


DOUBTFUL  ARGUMENTS.  71 

underlies  every  evil.  How  in  any  future  world 
we  are  to  endure  peace,  not  to  say  happiness, 
knowing  that  in  any  remotest  corner  of  the  uni 
verse  a  solitary,  sentient  being  is  shut  up  to  irre 
mediable,  unmitigated  torture,  is  to  me,  I  must 
admit,  a  hitherto  insoluble  problem.  Organized 
as  we  are,  I  could  almost  say  that  life  would  be 
more  tolerable  in  hell,  preaching  to  the  spirits 
in  prison,  sharing  the  sorrow  which  we  could 
not  alleviate,  than  in  heaven,  conscious  of  the 
existence  of  that  sorrow-full  world.  Better,  it 
would  seem,  to  labor  without  reward  for  the  up- 
springing  of  a  little  light  in  the  outer  darkness, 
than  to  sit  down  in  the  full  blaze  of  light,  knowing 
all  the  while  that  there  were  souls  shrouded  in  the 
impenetrable  gloom.  There  is  said  to  be  a  skele 
ton  in  every  house  ;  but  more  dreadful,  more  awe- 
inspiring  than  any  earthly  terror,  would  be  that 
skeleton  in  the  heavenly  mansions.  Only  a  cease 
less  endeavor  for  the  restoration  of  these  lost  could 
atone  for  the  grief  of  living. 

But  God  is  good.  Through  every  creed,  in 
spite  of  every  contradiction,  past  all  bewilderment, 
his  tender  mercies  are  over  all  his  works.  It  is 
ours  to  judge  only  of  what  we  see  and  from  what 
we  see.  We  behold  mortal  pain,  finite  suffering, 
and  find  that  they  are  not  irreconcilable  with 
Divine  love.  If  the  time  ever  comes  when  we 
behold  immortal  pain,  infinite  suffering,  there  will 
be  some  further  revelation  which  will  save  to  us 


72  SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES, 

our  God  unchangeable  in  goodness.  Meanwhile, 
let  us  not  reason  from  the  untrue  to  the  unknown  ; 
from  selfishness  to  severity  ;  but  seeing  what  is 
revealed  of  the  terror  of  the  Lord,  persuade  men 
to  holiness. 


VI. 


CHRIST   AS   A   PREACHER. 


HE  general  opinions  of  the  Orthodox 
Church  regarding  the  relations  be 
tween  man  and  the  Gospel  are  well 
represented  by  the  following  extracts 
from  two  criticisms.  The  first  says  :  "  You  some 
times  fall  into  fallacious  reasoning :  as,  for  instance, 
when  you  argue  that  men  want  the  Gospel  and  ap 
preciate  it  as  they  do  law  and  physic.  They  need 
it,  but  they  do  not  want  it.  The  ministers  of  Christ 
contend,  as  did  their  Master,  with  a  natural  opposi 
tion  to  divine  truth.  Man  has  a  capacity  but  not 
a  passion  for  spiritual  realities.  And  with  all  the 
charm  of  novelty  on  his  side,  with  all  his  benefi 
cent  and  miraculous  gifts  of  healing,  with  all  the 
marvel  of  a  faultless  presence,  and  of  wise  and 
apt  words  such  as  man  never  spake,  directed  by  a 
knowledge  of  what  was  in  the  hearts  of  men,  know 
ing  just  how  to  read  and  meet  men,  yet  accord 
ing  to  your  Yankee  standard  of  success,  Christ's 
life  as  a  minister  was  one  signal  failure." 


74  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

The  second  says :  "  Permit  me  to  say  that  I 
think  you  have  hardly  done  justice  to  the  inherent 
depravity  of  human  nature.  It  seems  to  me  that 
your  positions  in  favor  of  more  brightness,  vigor, 
thought,  &c.,  in  the  pulpit  and  prayer-meeting, 
having  an  immediate  and  necessary  effect  in  win 
ning  a  hearing  are  more  sunny  and  golden  than 
facts  will  confirm.  I  endorse  your  general  posi 
tion,  but  I  also  think  that  there  is  another  side 
which  you  do  not  bring  out  quite  sharply  enough ; 
that  is,  that  the  Gospel  does  meet  under  all  condi 
tions  a  stubborn  resistance  from  the  heart." 

These  opinions  seem  to  me  to  be  the  traditions 
of  men  and  not  the  word  of  God.  From  the 
four  Gospels  which  are  our  authority  regarding 
Christ's  history,  it  is  easy  to  prove  that  men  want 
the  Gospel  and  appreciate  it  as  they  do  law  and 
physic  ;  that  Christ's  life  as  a  minister  was,  even 
according  to  the  Yankee  standard  of  success,  a  sig 
nal  success  ;  and  that  the  Gospel  so  far  from  meet 
ing  under  all  circumstances  a  stubborn  resistance 
from  the  heart,  did,  when  proclaimed  from  the  lips 
of  the  Saviour,  meet  with  acceptance,  gratitude, 
and  enthusiasm.  The  people  who  are  reported  as 
having  despised  and  rejected  his  Gospel  are  a  com 
paratively  small,  though  very  influential  minori 
ty.  It  was  chiefly  composed  of  the  learned,  the 
wealthy,  the  scribes  and  Pharisees,  and  elders  of 
the  people,  the  professed  teachers  of  righteous 
ness  ;  while  by  the  common  people,  the  masses, 


CHRIST  AS  A   PREACHER.  75 

the  Gospel  was  welcomed  with  gladness  and  single 
ness  of  heart.  They  felt  that  here  was  the  truth 
for  which  they  had  languished,  and  their  thirsty 
souls  drank  it  in  as  the  water  of  the  river  of  life. 

The  immediate  object  in  view,  let  it  be  remem 
bered,  is  to  ascertain  whether  Christ  obtained  a 
hearing,  or  preached  to  "  empty  pews  "  ;  whether 
he  secured  attention,  confidence,  and  respect,  or 
whether  he  met  violence  and  opposition. 

Our  first  report  of  Christ's  preaching  is  from 
Matthew,  who  tells  us  that  Jesus  began  to  preach, 
and  to  say,  "  Repent :  and  he  went  about  all 
Galilee,  preaching  the  Gospel  of  the  kingdom,  and 
his  fame  went  about  all  Syria,  and  there  followed 
him  great  multitiides  of  people  from  Galilee,  and 
from  Decapolis,  and  from  Jerusalem,  and  from 
Judasa,  and  from  beyond  Jordan."  And  seeing 
these  multitudes,  he  went  up  into  a  mountain  and 
preached  a  sermon  to  them,  and  they  were  aston 
ished  at  his  doctrine.  Why  ?  He  taught  them 
as  one  having  authority,  and  not  as  the  —  scribes. 
Nay,  so  impressed  were  they  with  his  loving,  com 
forting,  instructing  words  that  they  could  not 
leave  him  when  the  sermon  was  over.  They 
hung  upon  his  footsteps.  Even  when  he  was 
come  down  from  the  mountain,  great  multitudes 
followed  him.  They  crowded  about  the  houses 
where  they  knew  he  was.  When  he  came  out 
and  walked  down  to  the  seaside  to  be  fanned  by 
the  cool  breezes,  so  great  multitudes  were  gath- 


76  SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

ered  together  unto  him  that  he  put  off  in  a  boat, 
and  spoke  to  them  as  they  stood  on  the  shore. 
Again  and  again  we  are  told,  with  simple  unim- 
passioned  reiteration,  of  the  great  multitudes  that 
followed  him  and  glorified  the  God  of  Israel,  when 
they  saw  the  mighty  works  that  he  did,  and  heard 
the  words  that  proceeded  from  his  mouth.  When 
he  went  up  to  Jerusalem,  the  people  in  an  out 
burst  of  love  and  enthusiasm  made  him  spontane 
ously  a  triumphal  procession.  "  A  very  great  mul 
titude  spread  their  garments  in  the  way ;  others 
cut  down  branches  from  the  trees,  and  strewed 
them  in  the  way.  And  the  multitudes  that  went 
before,  and  that  followed,  cried,  saying,  Hosan- 
na  to  the  Son  of  David  !  Blessed  is  he  that 
cometh  in  the  name  of  the  Lord !  Hosanna 
•in  the  highest !  "  It  was  like  the  coming  of  a 
king,  so  that  "  all  the  city  was  moved,  saying, 
Who  is  this  ?  And  the  multitude  said,  This  is 
Jesus,  the  prophet  of  Nazareth  of  Galilee."  But 
"  when  the  chief  priests  and  scribes  saw  the  won 
derful  things  that  he  did,  and  the  children  crying 
in  the  temple,  and  saying,  Hosanna  to  the  Son  of 
David!  they  were  sore  displeased."  Mark  tells 
us  that  the  people  were  astonished  both  at  his  doc 
trine  and  his  works.  They  were  all  amazed,  inso 
much  that  they  questioned  among  themselves, 
saying,  "  What  thing  is  this  ?  What  new  doc 
trine  is  this  ?  "  And  all  the  city  was  gathered  to 
gether  at  the  door.  As  soon  as  it  was  noised  that 


CHRIST  AS  A  PREACHER.  77 

he  was  in  a  house  in  Capernaum,  so  many  gath 
ered  together  that  there  was  no  room  to  receive 
them,  no,  not  so  much  as  about  the  door.  In  his 
absence,  great  multitudes  flocked  about  his  dis 
ciples  ;  but  as  soon  as  he  came  in  sight,  they  all 
left  the  disciples  and  ran  to  him  and  saluted  him. 
When  Jesus  heard  of  the  slaughter  of  his  herald, 
his  kinsman,  his  baptizer,  he  naturally  wished  to 
be  alone,  and  withdrew  to  a  desert  apart :  but 
when  the  people  heard  of  it,  they  followed  him  on 
foot  out  of  the  cities.  When,  after  spending  the 
whole  night  in  words  and  works  of  love,  he  de 
parted  at  dawn  into  a  desert  place  for  rest  and 
solitude,  again  the  eager,  longing,  but  somewhat  in 
considerate  people  could  not  bear  to  be  separated 
from  him,  but  sought  him,  and  stayed  him,  that  he 
should  not  depart  from  them,  and  could  only  be 
pacified  by  the  gentle  assurance  that  he  must  preach 
the  kingdom  of  God  to  other  cities  also.  Yet  they 
were  not  always  inconsiderate.  They  tried  to 
silence  Bartimeus,  fearing  evidently  that  his  cries 
would  disturb  the  Master.  Again  and  again  their 
love  and  faith  interposed  between  him  and  vio 
lence.  It  is  instructive  to  mark  the  different  ef 
fects  which  were  produced  on  the  people  and  on 
their  leaders.  When  Jesus  healed  the  palsied 
man,  "certain  of  the  scribes  said  within  themselves, 
This  man  blasphemeth."  "  But  when  the  multi 
tudes  saw  it,  they  marvelled,  and  glorified  God." 
When  the  devil  was  cast  out,  and  the  dumb  spake, 


78  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

the  multitudes  marvelled,  saying,  "  It  was  never 
so  seen  in  Israel."  But  the  Pharisees  said,  "  He 
casteth  out  devils  through  the  prince  of  devils." 
When  he  healed  the  man  who  had  the  withered 
hand,  the  Pharisees  went  out  and  held  a  council 
against  him,  how  they  might  destroy  him.  But 
when  Jesus  knowing  it,  withdrew  himself,  the 
great  multitude  followed  him  just  the  same. 
When  the  chief  priests  and  Pharisees  heard  his 
parables,  and  perceived  that  he  spake  of  them, 
they  sought  to  lay  hands  on  him,  but  they  feared 
the  multitude,  because  they  took  him  for  a  prophet. 
When  he  destroyed  the  traffic  which  defiled  the 
temple,  the  scribes  and  chief  priests  sought  how 
they  might  destroy  him  :  for  they  feared  him,  be 
cause  all  the  people  were  astonished  at  his  doctrine. 
When  he  spoke  to  them  the  parable  of  the  vine 
yard,  they  sought  to  lay  hold  on  him,  but  they 
feared  the  people,  and  were  forced  to  leave  him, 
and  go  their  way.  While  the  scoffing  scribes, 
the  Sadducees,  the  Pharisees,  and  the  Herodians 
tried  to  catch  him  in  his  words,  the  common  peo 
ple  heard  him  gladly.  The  woman  who  was 
loosed  from  her  infirmity  glorified  God,  but  the 
ruler  of  the  synagogue  answered  with  indignation. 
When  Christ  had  discomfited  the  hypocritical 
fault-finder,  all  his  adversaries  were  ashamed,  but 
ah1  the  people  rejoiced  for  all  the  glorious  tilings 
that  were  done  by  him.  When  he  was  at  the  de 
scent  of  the  Mount  of  Olives,  the  whole  multitude 


CHRIST  AS  A  PREACHER.  79 

of  the  disciples  began  to  rejoice,  and  praise  God 
with  a  loud  voice,  for  all  the  mighty  works  that 
they  had  seen  ;  but  some  of  the  Pharisees  among 
them  bade  him  rebuke  his  disciples  for  their  accla 
mation.  When  he  taught  daily  in  the  temple,  the 
chief  priests,  and  the  scribes,  and  the  chief  of  the 
people,  sought  to  destroy  him,  and  could  not  find 
what  they  might  do,  for  all  the  people  were  very 
attentive  to  hear  him.  When  Jesus  had  raised 
Lazarus  from  the  grave,  many  of  the  Jews  be 
lieved  on  him,  but  the  chief  priests  and  the  Phari 
sees,  from  that  day  forth,  took  counsel  together 
to  put  him  to  death.  While  the  people  were 
going  out  to  meet  him  with  palm-branches  and 
songs  of  welcome,  the  Pharisees  in  an  agony  of 
despair  were  saying  among  themselves,  "  Perceive 
ye  how  ye  prevail  nothing  ?  behold,  the  world  is 
gone  after  him." 

Did  not  these  poor  people  seem  to  want  as  well 
as  to  need  the  Gospel  ?  Did  they  not  give  evidence 
of  as  true  appreciation  of  it  as  ever  was  given  of 
law  or  physic  ?  Were  not  these  circumstances  in 
which  the  Gospel  did  not  meet  a  stubborn  resist 
ance  from  the  heart?  From  a  clique,  from  a 
hierarchy,  from  a  class  eaten  up  with  spiritual 
pride,  the  Gospel  did  meet  with  a  stubborn  resist 
ance  ;  for  the  spread  of  the  Gospel  was  sure  to  be 
the  downfall  of  their  prerogatives.  But  by  the 
masses  of  the  people  —  by  those  who  were  to  be 
elevated  in  this  world  as  well  as  fitted  for  the  next 


80  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

by  this  Gospel  —  it  was  warmly  welcomed.  It 
seemed  almost  from  the  beginning  to  be  instinc 
tively  recognized  as  the  good  tidings  of  great  joy 
to  all  people. 

But  though  the  people  did  flock  after  Jesus, 
does  not  the  manner  in  which  they  finally  turned 
against  him  and  clamored  for  his  crucifixion  show 
that,  although  the  novelty  of  his  mission  amused 
them  for  a  while,  they  no  sooner  saw  its  real  aim, 

—  the  purity  of  heart  and  life  which  he  required, 

—  than  they  revoked  their  former  decisions,  and 
cried,  "  Crucify  him,  crucify  him"? 

Who  crucified  the  Lord  ? 

Matthew  says,  "  Then  assembled  together  the 
chief  priests,  and  the  scribes,  and  the  elders  of  the 
people,  unto  the  palace  of  the  high-priest,  .... 
and  consulted  that  they  might  take  Jesus  by  sub 
tlety,  and  kill  him.  But  they  said,  Not  on  the  feast 
day,  lest  there  be  an  uproar  among  the  people." 
Mark  says  they  "  sought  how  they  might  take 
him  by  craft."  Luke  still  more  definitely  says, 
"  The  chief  priests  and  scribes  sought  how  they 
might  kill  him  ;  for  they  feared  the  people."  Judas 
"  communed  with  the  chief  priests  and  captains, 

how  he  might  betray  him  unto  them And  he 

promised,  and  sought  opportunity  to  betray  him 
unto  them  in  the  absence  of  the  multitude."  So, 
then,  it  seems  the  people  were  so  far  from  in 
tending  any  harm  to  Christ  that  the  chief  priests 
and  scribes  were  forced  to  lay  their  plans  with  the 


CHRIST  AS  A   PREACHER.  81 

utmost  secrecy,  lest  the  people,  hearing  of  them, 
should  interpose  to  prevent  their  success.  The 
people  had  not  grown  hostile  or  cold  to  Jesus,  but 
were  seen  by  the  chief  priests  and  scribes  to  be 
his  enthusiastic  defenders,  who  must  by  all  means 
be  eluded. 

When  Judas  came  to  apprehend  Jesus,  he  was 
indeed  accompanied  by  a  great  multitude,  but  it 
was  "from  the  chief  priests  and  elders  of  the 
people"  still.  Luke  tells  us  that  Jesus  spoke  unto 
"  the  chief  priests,  and  captains  of  the  temple,  and 
the  elders,  which  were  come  to  him."  John  ex 
plicitly  says,  "  Judas  then,  having  received  a 
band  of  men  and  officers  from  the  chief  priests 
and  Pharisees,  cometh  thither,"  &c.  So  that  the 
people  were  entirely  guiltless  of  Christ's  appre 
hension,  were  indeed  probably  quite  ignorant  of 
the  fact,  as  his  enemies  had  designed  they  should 
be.  At  his  trial  it  was  still  the  chief  priests, 
and  elders,  and  all  the  council,  who  sought  false 
witness  against  Jesus,  to  put  him  to  death.  It  was 
the  chief  priests  and  elders  of  the  people  that 
bound  Jesus  and  led  him  away  and  delivered  him 
to  Pontius  Pilate,  and  accused  him.  Luke  says, 
"  The  whole  multitude  of  them  arose  and  led  him 
to  Pilate."  "  Them  "  he  has  before  designated  as 
the  elders  of  the  people,  and  the  chief  priests,  and 
the  scribes.  When  the  people  were  assembled  on 
their  feast-day,  many  of  whom  probably  did  not 
know  Jesus  except  by  hearsay,  the  chief  priests 

4*  F 


82  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

and  elders  persuaded  them  that  they  should  ask 
for  the  release  of  Barabbas  rather  than  Jesus. 
Mark  says  that  Pilate  knew  that  the  chief  priests 
had  delivered  Jesus  unto  him  for  envy.  And  the 
chief  priests  moved  the  people,  that  he  should 
rather  release  Barabbas  unto  them.  As  he  hung 
upon  the  cross,  some  that  passed  by  reviled  him, 
but  it  was  the  chief  priests  and  elders  that  took  the 
most  prominent  part  in  mocking  and  reviling  him  ; 
we  are  even  told  that,  as  Jesus  was  bearing  his 
cross  to  Calvary,  "  there  followed  him  a  great  com 
pany  of  people,  and  of  women,  which  also  bewailed 
and  lamented  him." 

It  appears,  then,  that  if  any  one  fact  is  clearly 
attested  in  the  Bible,  it  is  that  Christ  was  received 
by  the  people  with  a  clinging,  longing,  mournful 
passion  of  appreciation.  They  felt  through  their 
dull  lives,  through  their  aching  hearts,  the  beams 
of  a  spiritual  sun  ;  and,  after  their  homely  fashion, 
opened  their  souls  to  its  shining.  But  the  chief 
priests  and  scribes,  perceiving  that  their  craft  was 
in  danger,  never  wearied  till,  by  indefatigable  and 
unscrupulous  machinations,  —  by  hiring  and  cajol 
ing  the  assistance  of  lewd  fellows  of  the  baser  sort, 
and  by  playing  upon  the  political  ambition  and  per 
sonal  fears  of  their  military  governor,  —  they  had 
crucified  the  Lord  of  glory. 

Let  us  not  wrongfully  accuse  any  ;  yet,  if  there 
is  a  class  at  the  present  day  which  in  its  functions 
and  relations  corresponds  more  closely  than  any 


CHRIST  AS  A   PREACHER.  83 

other  with  that  formed  by  the  chief  priests  and 
scribes  of  Judsea,  it  is  the  clergy,  the  dignitaries  of 
the  Church.  And  for  the  clergy  —  the  represent 
atives  of  Christ's  accusers  and  foes  —  to  maintain 
that  the  people  —  the  representatives  of  Christ's 
defenders  and  friends  —  are  the  natural  enemies 
of  Christ,  —  to  prove  the  theoretical  enmity  of  the 
people  by  pointing  to  the  practical  enmity  of  the 
priests,  to  foist  the  malignity  of  a  clique  upon  the 
shoulders  of  humanity,  and  that  too  in  the  face  of 
facts  which  repeatedly  assert  and  imply  the  benev 
olence  of  humanity,  —  is  a  proceeding  which  to 
the  uninstructed  mind  must  be  characterized  as 
bordering  on  the  extraordinary. 


VII. 

NATHANIEL  EMMONS  OF  FRANKLIN. 


ROB  ABLY  there  is  a  large  class  who 
never  read,  and  would  never  think  of 
reading,  a  Look  by  Professor  Park,  or  a 
memoir  of  an  old  New  England  theolo 
gian.  They  rank  Dr.  Emmons,  Dr.  Hopkins, 
President  Edwa/ds,  Professor  Park,  under  the 
same  head,  —  the  only  difference  between  them 
being  that  some  are  dead  and  some  alive.  They 
look  upon  them  all  as  a  kind  of  ecclesiastical  co- 
lumbiad  of  ten-inch  caliber,  the  glory  and  the- 
safety  of  New  England  ;  but  columbiads,  however 
valuable,  are  not  entertaining,  not  sympathetic,  not 
attractive  in  the  social  circle,  not  the  kind  of  toy 
one  would  choose  to  sit  down  to  of  an  October 
afternoon  or  a  November  evening.  These  emi 
nent  names  are  names,  and  scarcely  anything  else. 
So  far  as  a  personality  attaches  to  them,  it  Is  a 
shadowy  and  distant  one.  They  are  supposed 
to  dwell  in  a  region  remote  from  common  life. 
Their  talk  is  of  the  volitions  and  the  affections, 


NATHANIEL  EMMONS  OF  FRANKLIN.     85 

of  nominal  essences  and  spiritual  substances,  of 
moral  ability  and  disinterested  submission.  But 
with  bread  and  butter,  market-prices,  the  fashions, 
and  the  thousand  little  interests  that  agitate  ordi 
nary  humanity,  they  have  nothing  to  do.  If  this 
class  of  readers  can  be  induced  to  take  up  the  life 
of  Dr.  Emmons,  by  Professor  Park,  their  opinions 
will  be  likely  to  undergo  a  radical  change  be 
fore  laying  it  down.  They  will  be  surprised  to 
find,  instead  of  an  uninteresting  narrative  of  an 
uninteresting  life,  one  of  the  raciest  books  that  the 
American  press  has  ever  produced.  It  carries  us 
into  the  intensity  of  New-Englandism.  It  takes 
us  back  into  the  life  of  the  last  century.  It  gives 
us  a  key  to  the  strength  of  the  clergy  of  that  day. 
It  shows  us  on  what  meat  our  fathe/s  fed  that  they 
grew  so  great.  It  is  invaluable  as  a  portrait  of 
the  past.  It  is  full  of  suggestiveness  for  the  pres 
ent.  To  a  young  clergyman  it  will  prove  a  guide, 
philosopher,  and  friend.  To  his  people,  and  to 
all  people,  it  will  come  fraught  with  wisdom  and 
power. 

For  Dr.  Emmons  was  —  eminently  and  pre 
eminently  —  a  man,  and  he  is  painted  as  such. 
It  is  no  sublimated  saintliness,  but  a  picture  from 
life,  with  all  the  lights  and  shadows.  Bright 
as  he  was,  we  see  the  spots.  Great  as  he  was, 
we  dare  sometimes  to  dissent  from  his  views. 
But  his  wisdom  and  his  folly  are  the  wisdom  and 
folly  of  a  strong,  upright  nature,  and  his  very 


86  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

follies  humanize,  without  degrading  him.  If  he 
always  lived  on  the  level  of  his  logic,  we  might 
feel  that  he  was  too  far  above  our  plane  for  sym 
pathy,  but  the  equilibrium  is  somewhat  restored 
when  we  hear  him  confess,  "  I  do  not  believe  in 
signs,  but  I  would  rather  not  see  the  new  moon 
over  my  left  shoulder."  We  are  delighted  to  see 
his  unreasonable  obstinacy  in  refusing  to  use  his 
hands  and  feet.  He  early  determined  to  devote 
himself  to  the  work  of  the  ministry,  and  this  is  the 
way  he  did  it :  — 

"  Although  he  boarded  within  sight  of  his  own 
house  (which  he  was  repairing),  and  frequently 
passed  it  while  under  repair,  he  never  allowed 
himself  to  see  its  interior,  until  it  was  finished." 

"  Walking  o¥er  his  farm  one  day,  he  saw  the 
bars  of  his  fence  down.  His  first  impulse  was  to 
put  them  up,  and  thus  save  his  fields  from  the 
depredation  of  cattle.  But  no ;  '  If  I  say  A,  I 
must  say  B  ;  and  it,  is  safer  not  to  begin  the  alpha 
bet.'  With  this  favorite  maxim  on  lu's  mind,  he 
left  the  bars  down,  and  went  into  his  study." 

"  At  a  time  when  a  large  quantity  of  his  hay 
lay  exposed  in  the  field,  his  men  were  suddenly 
alarmed  at  the  prospect  of  rain.  Though  they 
knew  that  in  ordinary  circumstances  it  would  be 
in  vain  to  expect  any  aid  from  him,  yet  as  there 
was  now  so  much  at  stake,  ....  one  of  them 
went  to  the  Doctor's  study  and  told  him  that  the 
hay  must  be  wet  unless  he  would  give  them  aid. 


NATHANIEL  EMMONS  OF  FRANKLIN.     87 

'  Then  let  it  be  wet,'  said  he.  'I  am  not  going  to 
leave  my  work  to  do  yours.' ' 

Often,  we  are  told,  he  spent  fourteen  or  fifteen 
hours  a  day  over  his  books.  "  No  one  could  look 
about  in  his  room  without  knowing  where  the  vet 
eran's  feet  usually  rested.  The  marks  which  they 
left  upon  the  wainscot  attracted  so  much  attention 
from  visitors,  that  he  was  obliged  to  procure  a  new 
panelling  for  one  place  in  his  room,  which  would 
suggest  fewer  queries."  He  did  make  to  physiol 
ogy  the  concession  of  rising  from  his  meals  with  as 
good  an  appetite  as  when  he  sat  down,  but  we 
cannot  help  thinking  what  a  pity  it  was  that  he 
did  not  eat  good,  hearty,  reasonable  dinners,  and 
take  brisk  and  vigorous  bodily  exercise.  It  must 
have  made  him  higher-toned.  But  his  wife  helped 
him  on.  When  asked  how  he  could  live  on  his 
small-  salary  without  working  on  his  farm,  he  re 
plied,  "  My  wife  supports  me."  She  made  his 
pastoral  visits  as  well  as  his  ink  and  blacking,  and 
respected  the  hook  on  his  door,  which  was  the 
"  shut  sesame  "  to  all  intruders. 

He  was  scrupulously  neat  and  orderly,  not 
dwelling  so  high  in  metaphysical  clouds  as  to  be 
careless  of  the  small  proprieties.  Though  he  once 
rode  home  with  another  man's  horse  without  dis 
covering  it,  he  would  have  a  horse  and  chaise 
worthy  of  being  called  "  the  minister's."  His 
barns  and  grounds  were  always  in  order.  Pre 
cisely  so  must  the  wood  be  laid  on  the  fire.  At 


88  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

such  a  time  the  wood-box  must  be  replenished. 
No  visitor  was  admitted  to  his  study  till  his  book 
or  manuscript  was  tucked  under  the  green  baize 
table-cover.  At  the  appointed  hour  he  was  at 
church,  and  expected  to  find  his  hearers  in  their 
seats,  not  loitering  about  the  door. 

Punctilious  himself,  he  desired  his  people  to 
be  the  same.  Never  but  once,  during  the  fifty- 
four  years  of  his  active  ministry,  did  .he  go  to  the 
treasurer  to  receive  his  salary.  Then  a  new  treas 
urer  thought  he  would  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and 
make  the  creditors  of  the  parish  wait  on  him.  He 
stayed  at  home.  So  did  Dr.  Emmons.  Ten  days 
passed.  On  the  eleventh  the  treasurer  "  saw  the 
neat  carriage  driving  up  to  his  front  door,  and  the 
three-cornered  hat  in  the  carriage.  The  Doctor 
alighted  from  the  chaise,  holding  his  reins  and  the 
whip.  He  knocked.  The  door  was  opened.  .  '  Is 
Mr.  A.  at  home  ?  '  '  He  is.'  'I  should  be  glad 
to  see  him.'  Mr.  A.  came  and  stood  before  his 
minister.  '  Good  morning,  sir,'  was  the  minister's 
word.  '  Good  morning,  sir,'  was  the  treasurer's 
reply.  4 1  have  been  expecting,'  added  the  minis 
ter,  '  for  eleven  days  to  see  you  at  my  house. 
Good  by,  sir,'  and  he  added  no  more,  but  his 
fleet  horse  took  him  back  straight  to  the  parson 
age,  and  the  treasurer  followed  him  before  noon, 
carrying  the  delayed  salary,  and  resolving  to  try  no 
more  experiments."  He  was  careful,  however,  to 
award  the  same  courtesy  to  others  that  he  claimed 


NATHANIEL  EMMONS  OF  FRANKLIN.     89 

for  himself.  After  he  had  resigned  his  pastorate, 
he  stayed  in  his  pew  after  the  benediction,  waiting 
for  the  young  preacher  to  pass  out,  and  could  with 
difficulty  be  persuaded  to  walk  by  his  side. 

He  was  absolute  monarch  of  his  little  kingdom. 

"  There  goes  a  rumor,  that  a  gleeful  company 
made  him  a  generous  donation  before  they  engaged 
in  a  frolicsome  ride,  and  they  hoped  that  his  well- 
known  politeness  would  prevent  his  reprimand  of 
his  benefactors  on  the  succeeding  Sabbath.  But 
he  did  not  keep  back  the  dreaded  reprimand,  be 
ing  stimulated  to  an  unwonted  plajnness  of  speech 
by  the  generosity  of  his  young  friends."  "  When 
a  very  respectable  clergyman  of  another  denomina 
tion  had  appointed  a  religious  meeting  within  the 
bounds  of  Dr.  Emmons's  parish,  the  latter  met  him 
and  quietly  informed  him,  '  You  are  expected  to  keep 
on  your  side  of  the  parish  line.'1  He  kept  there." 
Another  clergyman  of  a  different  sect  had  been  in 
vited  by  a  parishioner  to  preach  in  Franklin.  He 
soon  after  met  Dr.  Emmons  in  Boston  and  informed 
him  of  the  fact.  The  Doctor  pleasantly  replied, 
"  You  have  a  very  important  sphere  of  labor  as 
signed  you  where  you  are.  You  need  not  take 
the  trouble  to  come  to  Franklin.  I  can  take  care 
of  my  own  flock."  "  But  you  will  not  object  to 
my  coming?"  "I  do  object.  And  if  you  come 
to  Franklin  in  our  present  circumstances,  I  '11  con 
sider  and  treat  you  as  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing." 
He  never  came.  Finding  one  day  that  his  hear- 


90  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES, 

ers  were  inattentive,  he  shut  up  his  note-case  and 
said,  "  I  shall  not  preach  again  in  this  house,  until 
I  can  he  assured  of  better  attention  from  my  peo 
ple,"  and  walked  off.  He  could  not  have  done  these 
things,  however,  if  he  had  not  been  Dr.  Emmons. 
His  moral  worth  gave  him  moral  weight;  but  let 
no  ass  put  on  this  lion's  skin,  for  it  will  surely  be 
his  death.  He  educated  his  people.  He  made 
them  think.  He  was  then*  pride  and  their  glory. 
They  could  well  afford  to  be  domineered  over  by 
a  man  who,  in  devoting  himself  to  them,  secured 
honorable  and  undying  fame  for  both. 

He  not  only  educated  his  people,  but  he  inter 
ested  them.  He  sent  them  home  from  church 
longing  for  the  next  Sunday  to  come.  Whether 
they  agreed  or  disagreed  with  him,  they  could  not 
choose  but  hear  him.  Every  eye  was  fastened  on 
him.  The  stillness  of  the  grave  pervaded  the  as 
sembly.  Young  women  accepted  marriage-offers 
on  condition  that  the  husband  elect  should  engage 
to  attend  the  Quarterly  Lecture.  The  grand  se 
cret  was, — let  it  be  written  in  letters  of  gold, — 
"  He  made  the  impression  on  his  people,  and  kept 
it  up  to  the  last,  that  his  public  services  were  worth 
something,  and  that  to  be  absent  from  one  of  them 
was  to  sustain  a  great  loss." 

His  sterling  honesty  was  conspicuous.  He  re 
fused  to  let  a  rich  man  indorse  a  debtor's  note. 
"  He  will  not  be  profited  by  the  transaction,  and 
it  is  not  right  that  he  should  take  the  risk."  He 


NATHANIEL  EMMONS  OF  FRANKLIN.     91 

lost  the  debt,  and  rejoiced  that  there  was  no  bonds 
man.  In  his  dread  of  appearing  to  hide  the  sharp 
points  of  his  creed,  he  makes  them  appear  a  little 
sharper  than  they  are.  The  more  unpopular  a 
truth,  the  more  inexorable  was  he  in  presenting  it. 
Assailed  for  a  political  sermon,  he  stoutly  stood  his 
ground,  sagaciously  declaring,  "  They  have  no  real 
objection  against  political  preaching,  but  against 
what  is  preached  upon  political  subjects." 

His  liberality  and  his  royal  good  sense  are  a 
shame  to  the  narrow-mindedness  of  some  of  our 
contemporaries.  Let  those  whose  indolence  wrests 
to  their  own  destruction  St.  Paul's  declaration, 
"  For  I  determined  to  know  nothing  among  you 
save  Jesus  Christ  and  him  crucified,"  heed  Dr. 
Enamons :  "  The  more  I  attended  to  theology, 
the  more  I  was  convinced  of  the  importance  of 
acquainting  myself  with  history,  ethics,  metaphys 
ics,  and  civil  polity."  "  I  made  it  a  rule  to  select 
the  best  and  the  worst  [authors]  ;  that  is  to  say, 
those  who  had  written  most  ingeniously  in  favor 
of  the  truth,  and  against  it."  "I  thought  it  was 
an  injury  and  reproach  to  clergymen,  that  they 
so  much  disregarded  general  knowledge,  and  paid 

their  whole   attention  to  divinity There  is 

no  doubt,  but  that  many  errors  and  wild  notions 
in  religion  have  originated  in  the  ignorance  of 
those  who  have  undertaken  to  preach  the  Gos 
pel,  without  understanding  the  connection  and 
harmony  of  its  fundamental  doctrines.  Such 


92  SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

preachers  seldom  attend  to  any  sentiments  but 
the  peculiarities  of  their  own  sect ;  and  vainly  im 
agine  that  all  are  heretics  who  do  not  subscribe  to 
their  contracted  creed.  To  avoid  this  mistake,  I 
resolved  to  read  and  study  divinity  in  a  liberal 
manner,  and  not  to  adopt  the  sentiments  of  my 
own  denomination,  nor  to  reject  the  sentiments  of 
other  denominations,  without  examining  them  for 
myself.  ....  I  have  made  it  my  practice,  in  the 
whole  course  of  my  ministry,  to  read  extensively, 
and  to  examine  as  critically  and  impartially  as  I 
could  all  ancient  and  modern  errors  and  innova 
tions  in  religion." 

It  would  be  pleasant  to  dwell  upon  his  judicious 
treatment  of  the  dissensions  in  his  church,  —  how 
he  "  appeased  his  alienated  hearers  by  preaching 
the  doctrines  of  the  Bible,  aiming  to  exalt  relig 
ion  by  preaching  the  doctrines  well;"  upon  his 
sensible  way  of  stopping  short  in  a  dispute  the 
moment  he  saw  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  it, 
even  at  the  risk  of  being  considered  defeated; 
upon  the  depth  and  strength  of  his  tenderness, 
standing  out  in  bold  relief  against  his  Christian 
resignation, — a  tenderness  that  could  scarcely  suf 
fer  him,  at  the  age  of  ninety,  to  speak  the  name 
of  the  wife  of  his  youth,  torn  away  in  her  spri no- 
time,  —  that  choked  his  utterance  when  he  would 
place  the  seal  of  baptism  on  the  brow  of  a  child 
who  was  to  bear  the  name  of  his  dead  son, 
though  it  had  not  prevented  him  from  pointing  the 


NATHANIEL  EMMONS  OF  FRANKLIN.     93 

sad  moral  of  that  son's  life  by  his  early  grave,  — 
a  tenderness  that  drew  his  little  grandchildren  to 
his  study  the  moment  they  entered  his  house, 
and  made  even  the  insane  of  his  parish  insist  on 
being  taken  to  the  parsonage,  that  they  might  be 
soothed  by  his  gentle  ministrations.  It  would 
be  instructive  to  dwell  upon  his  noble  mainte 
nance  of  the  dignity  of  man,  to  the  discomfiture 
of  those  who  make  orthodoxy  consist  in  debas 
ing  him  ;  upon  his  objections  to  Sunday  schools, 
evening  meetings,  protracted  meetings,  tract  soci 
eties,  &c.,  objections  which  time  proved  to  have 
been  valid,  though  time  may  also,  in  some  meas 
ure,  have  obviated  them ;  upon  the  vast  influence 
which  he  exerted  on  and  through  his  pupils ;  upon 
the  sensitiveness  which  shrank  from  revealing  his 
inward  life,  which  "  disliked  the  practice  of  liv 
ing  f out-of-doors,  of  having  all  things  common, 
and  of  giving  publicity  "to  all  religious  action"; 
upon  the  bashfulness  which  forced  him  to  soothe 
the  agitation  that,  to  the  last  Sabbath  of  his  pul 
pit-life,  he  felt  in  view  of  addressing  a  multitude, 
by  reflecting,  "In  one  hour  it  will  be  all  over"; 
upon  the  wit,  which,  always  under  control,  was 
always  ready,  for  attack  or  defence  ;  upon  that 
vivid  faith,  that  actual  belief,  that  intimate  ac 
quaintance  with  God,  and  that  strong  realization 
of  a  spiritual  world  which  saw  "  angels  encamping 
on  the  plains  of  Franklin,  and  hourly  ascending  or 
descending  to  or  from  the  skies,"  that  made  not 


94  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

only  the  quiet  village,  but  the  whole  world, 
"aglow  and  astir  with  the  Great  Spirit";  upon 
the  strength  of  that  soul,  which  in  the  depths  of  a 
secluded  parish  left  its  mark  on  his  own  age,  and 
must  stamp  it  on  the  ages  that  follow ;  —  but  want 
of  space  forbids.  No  thoughtful  person  can  read 
the  book  without  feeling  a  deep  gratitude  to  him 
who  has  turned  aside  from  severer  studies  to  en 
rich  his  generation  with  the  knowledge  of  one 
whose  life  is  a  priceless  legacy  to  his  country. 


VIII. 


BRAIN    AND    BRAWN. 


;  T  seems  a  great  pity  that  right  things 
have  a  tendency  to  rush  into  extremes, 
and  become  wrong  ones ;  for  too  much 
of  a  good  thing  is  very  nearly,  if  not 
quite,  as  bad  as  a  bad  thing.  From  which  text 
behold  a  short  sermon. 

In  the  Old  World,  and  in  portions  of  the  New, 
labor  is  degraded.     It  is  connected  with  ideas  of 

o 

servitude  and  incapacity.  We,  in  New  England, 
are  trying  to  remedy  the  evil.  We  wish  to  re 
deem  labor,  —  to  make  worth,  and  not  occupation, 
the  standard  of  rank.  This  is  a  laudable  end,  on 
ly  in  our  eagerness  to  accomplish  it,  we  are  in 
some  danger  of  over-doing,  to  the  injury  of  the 
very  individual  whom  we  seek  to  benefit.  We 
forget  that  labor  is  not,  in  itself,  noble.  It  was 
denounced  upon  Adam,  and  his  descendants, 
as  a  curse  ;  and  though  prayer,  and  love,  and 
faith  transmute  it  into  a  blessing,  it  does  not  lose 
its  original  nature.  It  remains,  in  some  aspects,  a 


96  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

curse  still.  It  is  to  be  accepted,  not  chosen. 
The  ox  and  the  ass  were,  from  the  beginning, 
given  to  man,  to  serve  him ;  but  not  till  the 
flaming  sword  was  drawn  to  keep  the  way  of 
Paradise,  was  man,  the  master,  doomed  to  eat 
bread  in  the  sweat  of  his  face. 

But  though  labor  has,  of  itself,  no  moral  charac 
ter,  it  can  be  rendered  subservient  to  noble  uses. 
It  is  to  us  what  we  make  it.  To  George  Stephen- 
son,  iron  and  water  and  burning  coals  were  nim 
ble  servitors  to  do  his  will ;  and,  at  his  bidding, 
they  brought  the  sea  inland,  and  bore  the  land 
seaward,  and  laid  commerce,  and  civilization, 
yes,  and  Christianity  too,  at  his  feet ;  but  scores 
of  men  hammered  by  the  side  of  George  Ste- 
phenson,  and  never  struck  out  the  spark  of  an 
idea.  They,  camel-wise,  bowed  their  shoulders 
to  a  life-long  burden :  he  chained  it  to  his  tri 
umphal  car,  and  rode,  a  conqueror.  In  the  one 
case,  labor  was  creative,  and  therefore  godlike ; 
in  the  other,  routine,  of  the  earth,  earthy,  — 
*not  a  thing  to  be  despised,  but  also  not  to  be 
extolled.  Hugh  Miller  breaking  up  stones  by  the 
roadside,  and  Patrick  McCarty  carting  them  to 
mend  the  road  with,  would  seem,  to  a  casual  pas 
senger,  to  be  working  together,  with  the  same  ob 
ject  in  view  ;  but  they  were  ages  apart. 

Yet  one  might  sometimes  suppose  that  labor 
was  the  undoubted  badge  of  a  higher  nobility, 
and  the  laboring  man  the  true  aristocrat,  by 


BRAIN  AND  BRAWN.  97 

divine  right.  Lyceum  lecturers,  agricultural-fair 
orators,  county  newspapers,  cajole  their  listeners 
and  readers  with  sounding  words  about  a  "  bold 
yeomanry,  our  country's  pride,"  and  the  "sturdy 
mechanic,  the  bone  and  sinew  of  the  land  "  ;  and 
the  bold  yeoman  and  sturdy  mechanic  chuckle 
over  the  flattery,  go  home  to  their  daily  monoto 
nous  drudgeiy,  and  settle  on  their  lees  in  self- 
complacent  ignorance.  But  the  yeoman,  or  me 
chanic,  who  delves  without  thought,  or  invention, 
or  reflection,  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  and  spends 
the  evening  over  his  pipe  and  his  mug  of  cidei', 
is  —  a  very  great  deal  lower  than  the  angels  ; 
is,  I  had  almost  said,  a  cumberer  of  the  ground 
from  which  he  draws  his  fancied  nobility. 

This  is  not  to  say  aught  against  the  honorable- 
ness  of  agricultural  or  mechanical  occupations. 
It  is  only  that,  like  all  other  occupations,  they 
derive,  but  do  not  confer,  honor  or  shame.  Igno- 

'  O 

ranee  and  stupidity  are  disgraceful  in  farmer  or 
doctor.  Intelligence  and  refinement  are  respect 
able  in  shoemaker  or  lawyer.  The  inheritance 
of  an  estate  does  not  convert  a  clown  into  a 
gentleman,  nor  does  its  loss  convert  a  gentle 
man  into  a  clown.  He  that  sweeps  a  floor  as  for 
God's  laws,  makes  that  and  the  action  fine ;  and 
he  that  sweeps  a  floor,  year  in  and  year  out,  with 
no  higher  end  in  view,  is  fine  and  refined  neither 
in  himself  nor  in  his  action. 

Yet  you  will  often  hear  such  encomiums  passed 
5  o 


98  SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

as,  "  He  is  the  hardest-working  man  in  town." 
"  He  is  a  fine  man,  —  always  at  it,  —  up  early  and 
late."  "  He  is  a  most  industrious  man.  You  al 
ways  know  where  to  find  him.  Go  to  his  bench." 
Such  remarks  are  intended  to  indicate  virtues, 
and  perhaps  they  do,  but  not  necessarily.  If  a 
man  is  forced,  by  untoward  circumstances,  either 
to  labor  unceasingly  or  to  see  his  family  suffer, 
then,  if  he  perform  cheerfully  his  unceasing  labor, 
it  is  a  great  virtue.  Or,  if  his  mind  has  been 
sparingly  endowed  by  his  Creator,  and  he  has  to 
use  the  whole  of  it,  and  his  body  and  time  too,  in 
the  support  of  his  family,  and  does  it,  it  is  still  a 
virtue,  but  a  little  one.  If  he  labors  unceasingly 
because  it  is  a  habit,  or  to  hoard  up  money,  or  be 
cause  he  has  no  taste  for  anything  else,  it  is  no 
virtue  at  all.  It  is  a  fault ;  not  to  say  a  crime. 
God  did  not  create  us  to  be  "  always  at  it." 
There  are  times  and  seasons  when  we  ought  to  be 
away  from  "  it."  There  are  duties  which  lie 
otherwhere  than  in  the  shop  or  on  the  farm. 
Therefore,  when  you  call  upon  us  to  admire  one 
of  your  hard-working  men,  be  so  good  as  to  inform 
us  first,  to  which  class  he  belongs  ;  whether  his 
lauded  virtue  is  not  his  sin  to  be  rebuked,  or,  at 
least,  his  weakness  to  be  compassionated.  Is 
not  the  very  reason  why  he  has  to  toil  and  moil 
over  his  corn  and  potatoes,  that  he  has  not  intel 
ligence  enough  to  apply  the  best  methods  of  cul 
ture  to  his  farm,  —  methods  which  would  give  him 


BRAIN  AND  BRAWN.  99 

greater  crops  and  more  leisure  ?  Tell  us  how 
much  he  accomplishes  by  his  work,  not  simply 
how  much  he  works. .  It  is  no  credit  to  a  man 
to  go  round  by  Robin  Hood's  barn,  when  he  can 
just  as  well  take  a  short  cut  "  across  lots."  If  one 
man  works  twelve  hours  to  earn  the  bread  and 
butter  for  himself  and  his  nine  children,  while 
his  next-door  neighbor  does  the  same  thing  in  five, 
what  does  it  indicate  ?  That  the  first  necessarily 
has  more  virtue  than  the  second,  or  that  he  has 
less  mother-wit  ? 

The  flattery  with  which  our  assembled  working- 
classes  are  apt  to  be  served,  undoubtedly  contrib 
utes  to  keep  many  of  them  content  to  make  no 
higher  attainments.  If  they  are  not  received  with 
open  arms  by  the  educated  and  refined,  they  at 
tribute  it  to  their  occupation,  not  to  themselves  ; 
to  the  unreasonable  pride  and  prejudice  of  others, 
not  to  their  own  deficiency.  But  water  is  not  the 
only  thing  that  will  find  its  own  level.  Genius, 
wit,  learning,  ignorance,  coarseness,  are  each  at 
tracted  to  its  like.  Two  painters  were  overheard 
talking  in  the  room  where  they  were  at  work. 
"  Lord !  "  said  one,  "  I  knowed  him  well  when 
he  was  a  boy.  Used  to  live  with  his  gran'ther, 
next  door  to  us.  Poor  as  Job's  turkey.  But  I 

ain't  seen  him  since,  till  I  hearn  him  in Hall, 

t'  other  night.  Don't  suppose  he  'd  come  anigh 
me  now  with  a  ten-foot  pole.  Them  kind  of  folks 
has  short  memories,  ha !  ha !  Can't  tell  who  a 
poor  working-man  is,  nohow." 


100          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

No,  no,  good  friend,  you  are  in  the  wrong. 
There  is,  indeed,  a  great  gulf  between  you  and 
your  early  friend,  but  it  is  not  poverty.  To  say 
that  it  is,  is  only  a  way  you  have  of  flattering  your 
self-love.  For,  if  you  watch  those  who  frequent 
your  friend's  house,  you  will  find  many  a  one  who 
lives  in  lodgings,  with  the  commonest  three-ply 
carpets,  cane-seat  chairs,  and  one  warm  room  ; 
while  you  have  a  comfortable  house  of  your  own, 
with,  very  likely,  tapestry  and  velvet  in  your  par 
lor,  and  registers  all  about.  No,  sir,  it  is  not  be 
cause  you  are  poor,  nor  because  you  work  ;  for  he 
is  as  hard  a  worker  as  you,  though,  perhaps,  not 
so  long  about  it ;  but  because  —  begging  your  par 
don  —  you  are  vulgar,  and  ignorant ;  because  you 
sit  down  in  your  sitting-room  at  home,  with  your 
coat  off,  and  your  hat  on,  and  smoke  your  pipe,  — 
because  you  plunge  your  own  knife  into  the  but 
ter,  and  your  own  fork  into  the  toast,  having  used 
both  in  your  eating  with  equal  freedom,  —  be 
cause  your  voice  is  loud,  your  tone  swaggering, 
and  your  grammar  hideous,  —  because,  in  short, 
your  two  paths  from  the  old  school-house  diverged ; 
his  led  upward,  yours  did  not ;  and  the  fault 
is  not  his.  You  both  chose.  He  chose  to  culti 
vate  his  powers.  You  chose  not  to  do  so.  Call 
'things  by  their  right  names  ! 

Be  a  gentleman  ;  be  a  man  of  sense,  intelli 
gence,  and  refinement,  and  you  need  no  other 
credentials  to  the  best,  the  really  best,  society ; 


BRAIN  AND  BRAWN.  101 

nor  will  you  fail,  ultimately,  to  receive  the  esteem 
and  appreciation  which  your  worth  demands. 

The  Bible  is  a  revelation  of  the  Divine  will  and 
purpose,  and  by  following  its  directions  we  may 
obtain  eternal  life.  But  the  Scriptures  are  as 
profitable  for  the  life  that  now  is  as  for  that  which 
is  to  come.  The  lessons  which  the  Bible  teaches 
indirectly  are  surpassed  in  importance  only  by 
those  which  it  teaches  directly.  Its  worldly  max 
ims  are  as  admirable  in  their  way  as  its  religious 
maxims,  and  both  are  illustrated  and  enforced  by 
noble  and  numerous  examples.  Never  has  the 
world  seen  specimens  of  better  farmers,  mer 
chants,  tradesmen,  masters,  servants,  high-bred 
ladies,  courtly  knights,  brave  soldiers,  skilful  gen 
erals,  accomplished  statesmen,  devoted  clergymen, 
unselfish  patriots,  than  those  who  pass  in  stately 
procession  before  the  Bible  reader.  What  a  fine 
old  Hebrew  gentleman  is  Boaz  !  How  courteous 
ly  he  steps  upon  the  scene !  A  mighty  man  of 
wealth,  of  good  family,  a  large  landed  proprietor, 
an  influential  citizen,  belonging  to  the  "  best  soci 
ety,"  he  comes  down  from  his  house  in  the  city, 
to  see  for  himself  how  matters  are  going.  With 
a  fine  patriarchal  courtesy  he  greets  the  reapers 
as  h*  passes  among  them.  "  The  Lord  be  with 
you,"  and  with  equal  courtesy,  honorable  alike  to 
him  and  to  themselves,  they  answer,  "  The  Lord 
bless  thee."  Is  not  here  a  lesson  for  master  and 
servant,  employer  and  employed  ?  Does  any  one 


102          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

suppose  that  they  served  him  any  the  less  faith 
fully  for  his  respectful  kindness,  or  that  there  was 
any  sycophancy  in  their  cordial  response  ?  Was 
there  anything  in  the  interchange  of  pleasant  feel 
ing  that  trenched  upon  the  dignity  either  of  Boaz 
or  his  reapers  ?  Is  not  the  truest,  the  only  Chris 
tian  relation  between  master  and  servant,  that 
which  recognizes  the  underlying  brotherhood  of 
man,  while  it  is  equally  cognizant  of  the  surface 
discrepancies  ?  Does  not  the  servant  best  respect 
and  most  scrupulously  serve  the  master  who  re 
spects  the  servant  ?  A  consideration  of  others' 
rights  is  the  surest  way  to  compass  the  considera 
tion  of  our  own.  To  be  polite  to  others  is  the 
best  way  to  make  others  polite  to  us.  Here  as 
elsewhere,  what  measure  ye  mete  shall  be  meas 
ured  to  you  again. 

But  Boaz,  with  that  keen  observation  which 
may  perhaps  have  had  something  to  do  with  his 
great  wealth  and  high  standing,  notices  a  new 
face  among  the  merry  field-maidens,  a  graver,  qui 
eter  face  probably,  and  turning  to  his  overseer  he 
makes  inquiry,  and  learns  that  it  belongs  to  the 
young  woman  who  has  been  talked  about  so  much 
in  the  city,  —  the  Moabitish  damsel  who  left  her 
own  family  and  land  for  love  of  her  dead  hus 
band's  mother  and  his  God.  So,  glad,  doubtless, 
of  the  opportunity,  he  cheers  her  fluttering,  fright 
ened  heart  with  gracious  words.  How  soothingly 
and  gratefully  must  have  fallen  on  her  ear: 


BRAIN  AND  BRAWN.  103 

"  Hearest  thou  not,  my  daughter  ?  "  (never  fear, 
Boaz ;  for  all  she  has  been  gleaning  so  industri 
ously,  nor  once  raised  her  eyes  to  you,  she  has 
heard  every  word  you  said.)  "  Go  not  to  glean 
in  another  field,  neither  go  from  hence,  but  abide 
here  fast  by  my  maidens :  let  thine  eyes  be  on 
the  field  that  they  do  reap,  and  go  thou  after 
them :  have  I  not  charged  the  young  men  that 
they  shall  not  touch  thee  ?  "  To  the  stranger  un 
wonted  to  the  customs  of  the  land  to  which  she 
had  so  lately  come,  unacquainted  with  the  people 
by  whom  she  was  surrounded,  these  assurances 
from  the  master  must  have  been  doubly  welcome. 
But  his  large-hearted  hospitality  was  not  yet  ex 
hausted  :  "  When  thou  art  athirst,  go  unto  the 
vessels  and  drink  of  that  which  the  young  men 
have  drawn.  At  meal-time  come  thou  hither,  and 
eat  of  the  bread,  and  dip  thy  morsel  in  the  vine 
gar.  And  he  reached  her  parched  corn,  and  she 
did  eat,  and  was  sufficed,  and  left."  And,  still 
further,  with  thoughtful  kindness,  Boaz  command 
ed  his  young  men  not  only  not  to  hinder  her,  but 
to  let  fall  also  some  of  the  handfuls  on  purpose  for 
her.  No  wonder  Ruth  fell  in  love  with  him,  —  so 
gentle,  so  generous,  so  tender  to  the  forlorn  little 
foreigner. 

Ruth  was  a  Moabitess,  a  heathen  by  birth,  a 
resident  in  a  heathen  country,  and  probably  her 
first  impressions  of  a  country  in  which  the  true 
God  was  worshipped  were  received  in  the  harvest- 


104          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

fields  of  Boaz.  Suppose  a  young  woman  from  the 
Feejee  Islands  were  to  be  transported  to  the  hay- 
fields  of  some  of  our  large  farmers  on  a  fine  day 
in  July ;  would  her  impressions  be  as  favorable  as 
those  of  Ruth  ?  Would  she  see  a  liberality,  and 
kindness,  and  courtesy,  which  should  at  once  re 
commend  a  Christian  country  to  her  favor?  Do 
we  always  see  in  our  barns,  our  cider-presses,  our 
corn-fields,  our  potato-patches,  our  wood-sheds, 
a  Christianity  as  decorous  and  well-behaved  ? 
There  are  farmers  who,  instead  of  being  polite, 
rather  pride  themselves  on  the  roughness  of  their 
dress  and  manners.  They  seem  to  think  that 
to  be  polite  is  unmanly,  —  that  blue  overalls  and 
swarthy  arms  must  have  coarse  natures  to  match, 
—  that  refinement  belongs  only  to  broadcloth,  and 
a  soft  address  to  dancing-masters  ;  but  is  there  any 
reason  why  a  New  England  farmer  should  not  be 
polite  as  well  as  a  Bethlehem  farmer  ?  Farming  is 
a  noble  occupation  when  it  is  nobly  followed  ;  but 
if  to  be  a  farmer  it  is  necessary  to  be  a  boor,  then 
farming  is  of  all  occupations  the  most  ignoble  and 
undesirable.  The  truth  is,  politeness  is  the  pre 
rogative  of  no  vocation.  A  boot-black  may  be 
less  accomplished  than  a  prince,  but  he  need  not 
be  less  polite.  Haymaking  browns  the  skin  and 
hardens  the  hands,  but  it  need  not  make  the  heart 
callous  nor  the  soul  coarse. 

Politeness  is  a  Christian  duty.     A  man  has  no 
more  right  to  be  impolite  than  he  has  to  steal. 


BRAIN  AND  BRAWN.  105 

Politeness  is  often  synonymous  with  Christianity ; 
that  is,  politeness  will  often  lead  a  man  to  do  the 
same  things  which  Christianity  will  lead  him  to  do. 
Politeness  keeps  a  man  from  saying  that  which 
will  needlessly  wound  another's  feelings.  So  does 
Christianity.  Politeness  keeps  a  man  from  in 
dulging  in  habits  which  annoy  those  around  him. 
So  does  Christianity.  Politeness  is  often  Chris 
tianity  applied  to  the  manners.  Yet  Christian 
people  will  often  make  remarks  which  they  know 
will,  and  intend  shall,  give  pain  to  others,  and  for 
no  other  purpose  than  to  amuse  themselves  or  grat 
ify  a  petty  malice.  Sometimes  it  is  simply  that  they 
do  not  care  whether  they  wound  or  not.  They 
never  seem  to  think  that  religion  has  any  bearing 
on  such  things.  They  will  speak  disparagingly  of 
a  person  whom  they  know  you  like,  when  there  is 
no  possible  worthy  object  to  be  subserved  by  it. 
They  will  ride  rough-shod  over  the  sensitiveness 
of  those  with  whom  they  are  associated,  and  if  any 
one  remonstrates  with  them,  why,  forsooth,  "  they 
are  plain  people,  —  they  say  what  they  think,  — 
there  is  no  hypocrisy  about  them"  Woe  to  the 
man  who  is  among  them,  but  not  of  them ! 
The  only  way  for  him  to  do  is  to  shut  up  within 
himself  everything  that  is  vulnerable,  and  to  go 
abroad  always  with  his  armor  on.  Thus  it  hap 
pens  that  it  is  often  far  pleasanter  to  live  and  min 
gle  in  society  with  gay,  fashionable,  worldly,  and 
polite  people  than  with  some  kinds  of  Christians. 

5* 


106          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

The  former  may  do  many  things  of  which  you 
disapprove.  They  acknowledge  no  higher  code 
than  politeness,  it  may  be,  but  they  live  up  to  it. 
They  round  off  their  angles,  level  down  their  pro 
tuberances,  never  say  cross,  or  harsh,  or  ill-na 
tured  things.  They  are  cushiony,  and  amiable, 
and  restful.  You  glide  smoothly  among  them. 
There  are  no  tangles  and  collisions  ;  whereas  the 
Christian  who  despises  politeness  is  angular,  full  of 
sharp  corners  which  he  continually  thrusts  in  your 
way  to  make  you  stumble  over  them ;  he  takes  no 
pains  to  make  himself  agreeable,  never  seems  to 
think  that  it  is  better  to  be  loved  than  not  to  be 
loved.  If  you  shun  him,  he  thinks  it  is  because  he 
is  sincere  or  you  are  haughty,  when  it  is  only  be 
cause  he  is  intolerably  selfish  and  repulsive.  He 
forgets  that,  though  the  Devil  does  appear  some 
times  as  an  angel  of  light,  light  is  none  the  less  on 
that  account  a  divine  and  glorious  thing ;  and  he 
forgets  also  that  the  Devil  in  such  a  disguise  is  just 
about  as  comfortable  to  have  about  as  would  be 
an  angel  with  the  diabolic  appurtenances. 

Politeness  if  not  godliness,  is  next  to  it,  there 
fore  let  us  be  polite.  If  we  cannot  be  as  polite 
as  we  would  like  to  be,  let  us  be  as  polite  as  we 
can.  The  man  who  will  not  try  to  be  polite  is  fit 
neither  for  the  church  nor  the  world.  Let  him 
dwell  apart  among  the  tombs.  Do  our  best,  and 
we  shall  all  probably  be  in  some  respects  disagree 
able  to  our  warmest  friends.  The  least  we  can  do 
is  to  make  ourselves  as  tolerable  as  possible. 


IX. 


GLORYING   IN   THE   GOAD. 


"  LET  the  wealthy  and  great 

Roll  in  splendor  and  state, 
I  envy  them  not,  I  declare  it ; 

I  eat  my  own  lamb, 

My  own  chickens  and  ham, 
I  shear  my  own  fleece,  and  I  wear  it ; 

I  have  lawns,  I  have  bowers, 

I  have  fruits,  I  have  flowers, 
The  lark  is  my  morning  alarmer ; 

So,  jolly  boys,  now, 

Here  's  God  speed  the  plough, 
Long  life  and  success  to  the  farmer ! " 

O  sings  a  certain  venerable  pitcher  its 
tmtiring  song.  A  brave  pitcher  it  was 
in  its  day.  A  well-ordered  farm  lies 
along  its  swelling  sides.  A  purple  man 
merrily  drives  his  purple  team  afield.  Gold  and 
purple  milkmaids  are  milking  purple  and  golden 
cows.  Young  boys  bind  the  ripened  sheaves,  or 
bear  mugs  of  foaming  cider  to  the  busy  hay 
makers,  with  artistic  defiance  of  the  seasons. 
There  are  ploughs  and  harrows,  hoes  and  spades, 
beehives  and  poultry-houses,  all  in  the  best  re- 


108          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

pair,  and  all  resplendent  in  purple  and  gold. 
Alas  !  Troy  was.  The  gold  has  become  dim,  the 
purple  is  dingy,  the  lucent  whiteness  has  gone 
gray  ;  a  very  large,  brown,  zigzag  fissure  has  rent 
its  volcanic  path  through  the  happy  home,  divid 
ing  the  fair  garden,  cutting  the  plough  in  two, 
narrowly  escaping  the  ploughman  ;  and,  indeed, 
the  whole  structure  is  saved  from  violent  disrup 
tion  only  by  the  unrelaxing  clasp  of  a  string  of 
blue  yarn.  Thus  passes  away  the  glory  of  the 
world  and  of  pitchers !  . 

Is  it  not  too  often  typical  of  the  glory  of  our 
rural  dreams  ?  To  live  in  the  country  ;  to  lie  on 
green  lawns,  or  under  bowers  of  roses  and  honey 
suckle  ;  to  watch  the  procession  of  the  flowers,  and 
bind  upon  our  brows  the  sweetest  and  the  fairest ; 
to  take  largess  of  all  the  fruits  in  their  season  ;  to 
be  entirely  independent  of  the  world,  dead  to  its 
din,  alive  only  to  its  beauty  ;  to  feed  upon  butter 
and  honey,  and  feast  upon  strawberries  and  cream, 
all  found  within  your  own  garden-wall ;  to  be 
wakened  by  the  lark,  and  lulled  asleep  by  the 
cricket ;  to  hear  the  tinkling  of  the  cow-bell  as  you 
walk,  and  to  smell  the  new-mown  hay,  —  surely 
we  have  found  Arcadia  at  last.  Cast  away  day 
book  and  ledger,  green  bag  and  yardstick  ;  let 
us  go  straightway  into  the  country  and  buy  a 
farm. 

But  before  the  deeds  are  actually  delivered,  it 
will  be  worth  while  to  ascertain  whether  the  pitch- 


GLORYING  IN  THE   GOAD.  109 

er's  word  is  as  good  as  its  bond.  If  its  fallen  for 
tunes  are  indicative  of  what  yours  shall  be, — if  Ar 
cadia  blooms  only  in*  its  gorgeous  bosom,  and  will 
turn  into  an  Arabia  Petraea  at  the  first  touch  of 
your  spade,  —  better  for  you  a  pitcher  of  roughest 
Delft  on  board  of  deal  than  all  this  pomp  and  cir 
cumstance  of  lies. 

Reports  of  societies  are  not  generally  "  as  inter 
esting  as  a  novel."  Nevertheless,  if  one  will  con 
sult  the  Report  of  the  Commission  of  Agriculture 
for  1862,  he  will  find,  among  fascinating  columns 
of  figures,  bold  disquisitions  on  the  midge,  a  mi-' 
rage  of  grapes,  pears,  and  peaches,  and  uncomfort 
able-looking  "thorough-bred"  cattle,  an  essay,  by 
Dr.  W.  W.  Hall  of  New  York  city,  which  may 
assist  him  in  forming  his  plans.  It  is  not  neces 
sarily  destructive  of  the  most  charming  theories, 
but  it  is  very  definite  and  damnatory  as  to  facts. 
Among  other  unromantic  and  disagreeable  things, 
it  asserts  —  and  proves  its  assertions  by  still  more 
disagreeable,  because  incontrovertible  statistics  — 
that,  for  all  the  sylvan  delights  of  lawn  and  bower, 
and  the  exquisite  sensation  of  eating  your  own 
hams,  the  largest  class  of  patients  in  insane  asylums 
comes  from  the  "jolly  boys  "  and  their  wives  and 
daughters  ;  but  better  watch  a  grass-blade  strug 
gling  up  under  the  curbstone  of  the  sidewalk  than 
view  the  fairest  landscape  in  the  world  from  be 
hind  a  grated  window.  We  learn  also,  that,  in 
spite  of  his  ample  larder,  his  freedom  from  envy 


110          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

and  carking  caro,  the  farmer  does  not  live  so  long 
as  the  pale  clergyman  whose  white  hands  he  looks 
upon  with  only  not  contempt ',  but  how  sweet  so 
ever  may  be  the  scent  of  clover  and  buttercup,  he 
little  heeds  their  fragrance  who  lies  beneath  them. 
We  are  told  that  a  very  large  part  of  our  farming 
population  have  no  breadth  of  view ;  that  they 
cannot  enter  into  a  conversation  beyond  a  few 
comments  on  the  weather,  the  crops,  the  markets, 
and  the  neighborhood-news.  The  freshness,  the 
beauty,  the  music  and  motion,  that  breathe  and 
stir  around  them,  can  gain  no  foothold  in  the  un 
varying  routine  of  their  lives  ;  but  in  vain  do  the 
heavens  spread  out  their  glory,  and  in  vain  the 
earth  unfolds  her  loveliness,  if 

"'  A  primrose  by  the  river's  brim 

A  yellow  primrose  is  to  him, 

And  it  is  nothing  more." 

To  these  skeletons  is  added,  perhaps,  the  casual 
and  certainly  the  most  common  skeleton  of  all :  in 
this  rustic  paradise,  his  home  of  all  the  graces  and 
comforts,  the  grim  spectre  Debt  stalks  to  and  fro, 
eating  out  the  farmer's  substance,  and  giving  him 
in  return  anxiety,  make-shifts,  irascibility,  and  de 
spair.  Three  homes  out  of  four,  according  to 
this  writer's  estimate,  suffer  from  the  ravages  of 
debt. 

This  is  a  general,  perhaps  a  national  view. 
We  may  come  a  little  nearer  home,  and  find  that 
a  closer  examination  only  confirms  the  conclusions 


GLORYING  IN  THE   GOAD.  HI 

arrived  at  by  the  broader  survey.  Thoreau,  who 
"  travelled  a  great  deal  in  Concord,"  and  whose 
keen  eyes  took  note  there  for  forty  years,  says,  — 
"  When  I  consider  my  neighbors,  the  farmers  of 
Concord,  ....  I  find  that  for  the  most  part  they 
have  been  toiling  twenty,  thirty,  or  forty  years 
that  they  may  become  the  real  owners  of  their 
farms,  which  commonly  they  have  inherited  with 
encumbrances,  or  else  bought  with  hired  money, 
....  but  commonly  they  have  not  paid  for  them 
yet.  It  is  true,  the  encumbrances  sometimes  out 
weigh  the  value  of  the  farm,  so  that  the  farm  itself 
becomes  one  great  encumbrance,  and  still  a  man  is 
found  to  inherit  it,  being  well  acquainted  with  it, 
as  he  says.  On  applying  to  the  assessors,  I  am 
surprised  to  learn  that  they  cannot  at  once  name  a 
dozen  in  the  town  who  own  their  farms  free  and 
clear.  If  you  would  know  the  history  of  these 
homesteads,  inquire  at  the  bank  where  they  are 
mortgaged.  The  man  who  has  actually  paid  for 
his  farm  with  labor  on  it  is  so  rare  that  every 
neighbor  can  point  to  him.  I  doubt  if  there  are 
three  such  men  in  Concord.  What  has  been  said 
of  the  merchants  —  that  a  very  large  majority, 
even  ninety-seven  in  a  hundred,  are  sure  to  fail — 

is   equally  true   of  the    farmers Yet  the 

Middlesex  Cattle-Show  goes  off  here  with  6dat 
annually,  as  if  all  the  joints  of  the  agricultural 
machine  were  suent." 

If  you  do  not  trust  the  testimony  of  books,  but 


112          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

will  turn  to  living  men,  you  will  scarcely  fare  bet 
ter.  One  man,  whose  recreations  have  been  ru 
ral,  but  his  business  civic,  conducts  you  through 
his  groves  and  summer-houses,  his  stone  barns  and 
his  latticed  cottages,  but  tempers  your  enthusiasm 
with  the  remark,  that  this  fancy  farming  is  sowing 
ninepences  to  reap  sixpences.  Relinquishing  fan 
cy  farms,  you  go  to  the  practical  man  swinging  his 
scythe  in  his  hay-field,  his  shirt-sleeves  rolled 
above  his  elbows,  and  his  trousers  tucked  into  his 
boots.  He  shows  you  the  face-walls  and  the  com 
post-heap,  the  drains  and  the  resultant  hay-cocks, 
with  measurable  pride,  but  tells  you  at  the  same 
time  that  every  dollar  he  has  earned  on  that  farm 
has  cost  him  nine  shillings.  This  will  never  do.  A 
third  farmer  has  inherited  his  farm,  not  only  with 
out  encumbrance,  but  with  money  at  interest. 
Under  his  hands  it  waxes  fat  and  flourishing,  and 
sends  to  market  every  year  its  twelve  or  fifteeen 
hundred  dollars'  worth  of  produce.  But  you  over 
hear  its  owner  telling  his  neighbor  that  "it  's  a 
Cain's  business,  this  farming :  make  any  man  cross 
enough  to  kill  his  brother ! "  You  find  this  farmer 
racked  with  rheumatism,  though  in  the  prime  of 
life,  —  bent  with  the  weight  of  years  before  his 
time.  He  has  lost  his  health  just  as  he  has 
improved  his  farm,  by  working  early  and  late 
through  sun  and  rain.  You  turn  to  still  another 
farm,  whose  owner  brings  the  learning  of  a  college 
as  well  as  the  muscles  of  a  yeoman  to  the  culture 


GLORYING  IN  THE   GOAD.  113 

of  the  soil.  His  nurseries  and  orchards  are  thrifty, 
his  cattle  sleek  and  comfortable,  his  yards  broad, 
cleanly,  and  sunny.  His  fields  wave  with  plenty, 
his  granary  overflows.  Here,  surely,  you  have 
struck  into  the  Happy  Valley.  Here  at  last  Tity- 
rus  reposes  under  the  shade  of  his  broad-spreading 
beech-trees.  On  the  contrary,  you  find  Tityrus 
in  the  sitting-room,  rolling  his  eyes  in  a  fine 
frenzy  over  a  very  prose  bucolic  on  the  Condition 
and  Prospects  of  Sheep-Husbandry,  which  he  is 
writing  for  the  "  Country  Gentleman,"  at  five  dol 
lars  a  page.  All  the  cool  of  the  day  he  works  on 
his  farm,  and  all  the  hot  of  the  day  he  devotes  to 
his  manuscript ;  and  he  avers,  with  a  solemnity 
which  carries  conviction,  that  he  and  his  wife  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  they  are  carrying  on 
their  farm  for  the  benefit  of  the  hired  help  !  He 
is  devoted  to  farming  ;  he  is  interested  in  its  pro 
cesses  ;  but  the  men  and  maids  get  all  the  profits, 
and  he  supports  his  family  by  his  pen.  Every 
where  you  find  one  song  with  variations.  Farm 
ers  and  farmers'  wives  are  not  in  love  with  their 
calling.  They  are  not  enthusiastic  over  it.  The 
"  smartest "  of  the  children  do  not  remain  at  home 
to  take  charge  of  the  farm,  unless  impelled  by  a 
sense  of  duty  to  their  aged  parents,  or  lured  by 
some  promise  of  extraordinary  recompense.  Eve 
rywhere  the  farmer  finds  farming  to  be  "  a  slave's 
life,"  "  a  dog's  life,"  "  delve  all  your  days,  and 
nothin'  to  show  for  't,"  "hard  scrapin'  to  make 

H 


114          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

both  ends  meet."  It  is  so  unwieldy  a  mode  of  ap 
plying  means  to  ends,  that,  if  you  must  believe 
him,  every  quart  of  milk  costs  him  six  cents,  with 
the  labor  thrown  in,  while  you  pay  the  milkman 
but  five  cents  at  your  own  door ;  every  dozen  eggs 
which  he  gathers  from  his  own  barn  he  gathers  at 
the  rate  of  twenty-five  cents  a  dozen,  while  you 
are  paying  only  twenty-two.  And  even  when 
both  ends  do  meet,  and  not  only  meet,  but  lap 
over,  you  scarcely  find  a  hearty  cheerfulness  and 
sunshine,  a  liberal  praise  and  unfeigned  ardor,  a 
contagious  delight  in  the  soil.  "  Jolly  boys "  in 
purple  blouses  may  drive  ploughs  around  pitchers, 
but  they  are  rarely  met  on  the  hillsides  of  New 
England.  If  we  credit  Dr.  Hall,  they  are  quite 
as  rarely  seen  on  the  rich,  rolling  lands  toward  the 
sunset. 

Is  this  state  of  things  inevitable  ?  Farmers 
have  a  very  general  belief  that  it  is.  They  not 
only  plod  on  in  the  old  way  themselves,  but  they 
have  no  faith  in  the  possible  opening-up  of  any 
other  way.  Their  sole  hope  of  bettering  their 
condition  lies  in  abandoning  it  altogether.  If 
one  son  is  superior  to  the  others,  if  an  only  son 
concentrates  upon  himself  all  the  parental  affec 
tion,  they  do  not  plan  for  him  a  brilliant  career  in 
their  own  line ;  they  do  not  look  to  him  to  obtain 
distinction  by  some  great  agricultural  achievement, 
a  discovery  of  new  laws,  or  a  new  combination  of 
old  laws ;  all  their  love  and  hope  find  expression 


GLORYING  IN  THE   GOAD.  115 

in  the  determination  "not  to  bring  him  up  to 
farming."  They  "  don't  mean  he  shall  ever  have 
to  work."  Hard  work  and  small  profits  is  the 
story  of  their  lives  and  of  the  lives  of  their  ances 
tors,  and  they  do  not  believe  any  other  story  will 
ever  be  truly  told  of  the  genuine  farmer.  And 
when  we  say  small  profits,  we  wish  the  phrase  to 
hold  all  the  meaning  of  which  it  is  capable.  It  is 
hard  work  and  small  profits  to  body  and  soul; 
small  profits  to  heart  and  brain  as  well  as  purse. 
But  every  plan  which  looks  to  better  things  is 
"notional,"  "new-fangled,"  "  easier  to  tell  of  than 
'tis  to  do"  ;  and  so  the  farmer  goes  on  his  daily 
beat,  with  pride  in  his  independence,  fostered  by 
the  flattery  of  his  county-fair  orators,  yet  vituper 
ating  his  occupation,  bemoaning  its  hardships  and 
depreciating  its  emoluments,  stubbornly  set  in  the 
belief  that  he  knows  all  there  is  to  know  about 
farming,  and  scornful  of  whatever  attempts  to  go 
deeper  than  his  own  ploughshare  or  cut  a  broader 
swath  than  his  own  scythe. 

To  suggest  the  possibility  that  all  this  is  the  re 
sult  of  limited  knowledge,  and  that  the  most  favor 
able  and  beneficial  change  might  be  found  in  a 
more  liberal  education  and  a  wider  acquaintance 
with  the  facts  discovered  and  the  deductions  made 
by  science,  would  be  considered  by  a  bold  yeoman 
ry,  our  country's  pride,  as  an  outbreak  of  "  book- 
farming  "  in  its  most  virulent  form.  "  You  may 
bet  your  hat  on  one  thing,"  says  the  bold  yeoman, 


116         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

—  "a  man  may  know  sunthin',  an'  be  a  good  min 
ister,  an'  a  tol'able  deacon,  but  he  's  spiled  for 
farmin'." 

Two  words  are  beginning  rb  be  coupled  in  the 
newspapers  and  to  float  about  in  the  air,  whose 
juxtaposition  is  the  cause  of  many  a  demure 
jest  among  the  rural  population,  —  "  Agricultural 
College."  Separately,  the  words  command  all 
respect;  united,  they  are  a  living  refutation  of 
the  well-kngwn  axiom  that  "  the  whole  is  equal  to 
all  its  parts." 

"  Gov'ment  is  goin'  to  build  an  Agriculteral 
College.  Farmin'  an'  learnin'  marry  an'  set  up 
house-keepin'.  Guess  Uncle  Sam  '11  have  to  give 
'em  a  hist  with  a  donation-party  now  'n'  then. 
Agriculteral  College  ?  Yes,  sir.  Well,  sir,  if 
you  '11  show  me  a  man,  sir,  that  's  a  gradooate 
from  that  College,  that  '11  ever  be  seen  with  a  hoe 
in  his  hand,  I,'ll  give  him  leave  to  knock  my 
brains  out  with  it !  Yes,  sir  I  An'  it  '11  be  the 
best  use  he  can  put  it  to,  sir  !  He  '11  do  less  mis 
chief  that  way  'n  any  other  !  Agriculteral  Col 
lege  !  Edicated  farmers !  Yes,  sir,  I  've  seen 
'em  !  Got  a  grist  up  in  Topsell.  Jint-stock  farm. 
The  best  talent  in  Essex  County  's  been  a-carryin' 
on  that  farm,  an'  nigh  about  carried  it  off,  an' 
themselves  along  with  it.  Yes,  sir,  the  best  tal 
ent  in  Essex  County,  an'  had  the  farm  given  'em, 
an'  they  've  sunk  a  thousan'  dollars,  sir,  a'ready  ! 
That  's  what  I  call  a  Sinkin'-Fund,  sir  !  That  's 


GLORYING  IN  THE   GOAD.  117 

to  begin  with.  Jones  is  an  edicated  farmer.  He 
made  his  cider  last  fall  on  scinetific  principles. 
Well,  sir,  I  could  put  an  apple  in  my  mouth  an' 
swim  down  Merrimac  River,  an'  have  better  cider 
'n  that  all  the  way !  Edicated  farmin'  's  a  very 
pooty  thing,  if  a  man  can  be  at  the  expense  on  't ; 
but  when  it  conies  to  gittin'  a  livin',  farmin'  's 
farmin'.  Agriculteral  College !  Yes,  sir,  farm- 
in'  's  a  hard  life,  lookin'  at  the  best  side.  Soil  's 
light  an'  runnin'  to  stones.  But  this  jjere  college 
stuff  's  the  poorest  kind  o'  top-dressin'  you  can 
give  it.  Learnin'  's  a  good  thing.  I  've  nothin' 
agin  learnin',  but  't  a'n't  the  best  use  you  can 
make  on  't  to  plough  it  in.  The  only  way  to  pro 
mote  the  agriculteral  interests  of  Essex  County, 
sir,  is  to  keep  the  farmers  jest  as  they  are.  Greek 
'n'  Latin  a'n't  state-prison  offences,  but  they  're 
sure  death  to  pork  'n'  potaters.  Minute  you  edi- 
cate  the  farmers  they  '11  be  as  uneasy  as  a  toad  un 
der  a  harrow.  What  kind  of  a  hand  would  Doc 
tor  Hall  or  Squire  Smith  make,  to  come  an'  take 
a  farm  alongside  o'  me  ?  " 

This  is  the  way  our  bold  yeoman  puts  it. 
Planting  himself  on  the  indisputable  facts  of  his 
pork  and  potatoes,  he  regards  one  who  stands 
upon  anything  else  as  a  dreamer.  He  forgets 
that  pork  and  potatoes  are  not  the  only  facts 
in  the  world.  The  earth  itself  is  a  larger  fact 
than  anything  that  springs  from  it.  It  is  the 
inalienable  inheritance,  the  sole  support  of  man, 


118          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

Mother  and  nurse,  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
there  comes  no  hour  when  he  can  withdraw  from 
her  nourishing  bosom.  But,  by  our  farmers' 
showing,  it  is  but  a  harsh  and  niggardly  step 
mother,  opening  the  fountains  of  life  only  under 
enforcement.  Is  this  reasonable  ?  Is  it  reason 
able  to  suppose  that  the  one  calling  which  is  essen 
tial  to  life,  the  one  calling  on  which  every  other 
depends,  should  be  the  Canaan  accursed,  servant 
of  servants^to  its  brethren?  Is  it  reasonable  to 
suppose  that  God  gave  us  this  beautiful  round 
world,  source  of  "all  our  wealth,  almoner  of  every 
comfort,  possessor  and  dispenser  of  all  grace  and 
loveliness,  yet  with  such  poison  in  her  veins  that 
they  alone  are  safe  who  deal  with  her  at  a  re 
move, —  she  withers  the  hand  that  touches  her? 
The  ancients  believed  better  things  than  these. 
They  reverenced  the  Mighty  Mother,  and  fabled 
a  giant's  strength  to  him  who  craved  a  blessing  by 
the  laying  on  of  hands.  We  know  that  a  curse 
was  pronounced  upon  the  earth,  but  why  farmers 
should  be  so  forward  to  monopolize  the  curse  it  is 
difficult  to  conceive.  It  is  generally  supposed  that 
all  the  descendants  of  Adam  are  equally  impli 
cated.  It  is  not  for  the  farmer  alone,  but  the 
minister  and  the  mechanic  as  well,  who  is  to 
eat  bread  in  the  sweat  of  his  face.  Wheat  and 
barley  and  corn  are  no  more  under  a  ban  than 
gold  and  iron  and  timber,  which  all  come  from  the 
same  bountiful  earth ;  but  while  artificers  in-  gold 


GLORYING  IN  THE  GOAD.  119 

and  iron  magnify  their  office  and  wax  fat,  the 
farmer  depreciates  his,  and  according  to  his  own 
showing  is  clothed  upon  with  leanness.' 

Surely  these  things  ought  not  so  to  be.  Looking 
at  this  earth  as  the  divinely-prepared  dwelling-place 
of  man,  and  looking  at  man  as  divinely  appointed  to 
dress  and  keep  it,  we  should  naturally  suppose  that 
there  would  be  an  obvious  and  a  pre-eminent  adap 
tation  of  the  one  to  the  other.  We  should  naturally 
suppose  that  the  primary,  the  fundamental  occupa 
tion  of  the  race  would  be  one  which  should  not 
only  keep  body  and  soul  together,  but  should  be 
exactly  fitted  to  develop  and  strengthen  all  the 
powers  called  into  exercise,  and  should  also  be 
most  likely  to  call  into  exercise  a  great  variety 
of  powers  to  the  fashioning  of  a  beautiful  sym 
metry.  Looking  still  further  at  the  secondary 
occupations,  we  find  our  views  confirmed.  The 
shoemaker  must  bend  over  his  lapstone,  and  he 
becomes  stooping  and  hollow-chested.  The  black 
smith  twists  the  sinews  of  his  arm  to  strength, 
but  at  the  expense  of  his  other  members.  The 
watchmaker  trains  his  eyes  to  microscopic  vision, 
but  his  muscles  are  small  and  his  skin  color 
less.  A  very  large  majority  of  the  secondary 
callings  remove  men  from  the  open  air,  often 
from  the  sunshine,  and  generally  train  a  few  fac 
ulties  at  the  expense  of  the  others.  The  artisan 
carries  skill  to  perfection,  the  genius  towers  into 
sublimity,  but  the  man  suffers.  Not  so  the  farmer. 


120          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

His  life  is  not  only  many-,  but  all-sided.  His 
ever-changing  employment  gives  him  every  va 
riety  of  motion  and  posture.  Not  a  muscle  but  is 
pressed  into  service.  His  work  lies  chiefly  out-of- 
doors.  The  freedom  of  earth  and  sky  is  his.  Ev 
ery  power  of  his  mind  may  be  brought  into  play. 
He  is  surrounded  by  mysteries  which  the  longest 
life  will  not  give  him  time  enough  to  fathom,  prob 
lems  whose  solution  may  furnish  employment  for 
the  deepest  thought  and  the  most  sustained  atten 
tion,  and  whose  solution  is  at  the  same  time  a 
direct  and  most  important  contribution  to  his  own 
ease  and  riches.  The  constant  presence  of  beauti 
ful  and  ever-shifting  scenery  ministers  to  his  taste 
and  his  imagination.  Nature,  in  her  grandeur,  in 
her  loveliness,  in  the  surpassing  beauty  of  her 
utilities,  is  always  spread  before  him.  All  her 
wonderful  processes  go  on  beneath  his  eyes.  The 
great  laboratory  is  ever  open.  The  furnace-fire 
is  always  burning.  Patent  to  his  curious  or  ad 
miring  gaze  the  transmutation  takes  place.  The 
occult  principle  of  life  surrounds  him,  might  almost 
bewilder  him,  with  manifestations.  Bee  and  bird, 
fruit  and  blossom,  and  the  phantom  humanity  in 
beasts,  offer  all  their  secrets  to  him.  Every  pro 
cess  is  his  minister.  His  mental  and  material  in 
terests  lie  in  one  right  line.  The  sun  is  his  ser 
vant.  The  shower  fulfils  his  behest.  The  dew 
drops  silently  down  to  do  his  work.  The  fragrance 
of  the  apple-orchard  shall  turn  to  gold  in  his  grasp. 


GLORYING  IN  THE   GOAD.  121 

The  beauty  of  bloom  shall  fill  his  home  with  plenty. 
The  frost  of  winter  is  his  treasure-keeper,  and  the 
snows  wrap  him  about  with  beneficence.  With 
nothing  trivial,  deceptive,  inflated,  has  he  to  do. 
An  unimpeachable  sincerity  pervades  all  things. 
All  things  are  natural,  and  all  things  act  after  their 
kind.  Is  it  a  divine  decree  that  all  this  shall  tend 
to  no  good?  Shall  all  this  pomp  of  preparation 
rightly  come  to  nothing  ?  Do  we  gather  the  nat 
ural  fruits  of  circumstance,  when  the  mind  travels 
on  to  madness,  the  body  goes  prematurely  to  dis 
ease  and  decay,  and  the  heart  shrivels  away  from 
love  and  is  overcast  with  gloom?  Is  all  the  ap 
pearance  of  adaptation  false,  and  do  farmers  gain 
the  due  emoluments  of  their  position?  Not -so. 
It  is  their  fault  that  they  do  not  see  the  life  which 
revels  in  exuberance  around  them.  Earth  with  all 
her  interests  takes  unrelaxing  hold  of  their  potato- 
patch,  but  they  have  eyes  only  for  the  potato-patch. 
Accustoming  themselves  to  the  contemplation  of 
little  things,  considered  separately  and  not  as  links 
in  the  universal  chain,  their  angle  of  vision  has 
grown  preternaturally  acute.  Things  they  see, 
but  not  the  relations  of  things.  They  dwell  on 
desert  islands.  For  all  the  integrity  of  Nature, 
they  fail  to  learn  integrity.  The  honest  farmer  is 
no  more  common  than  the  honest  merchant.  He 
abhors  the  tricks  of  trade,  he  has  his  standing  joke 
about  the  lawyer's  conscience :  but  the  load  of  hay 
which  he  sold  to  the  merchant  was  heavier  by  his 


122          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

own  weight  on  the  scales  than  at  the  merchant's 
stable-yard ;  the  lawyer  who  buys  his  wood, 
taught  by  broad  rural  experience,  looks  closely 
to  the  admeasurement;  and  a  trout  in  the  milk 
Thoreau  counts  as  very  strong  circumstantial  evi 
dence.  The  farmer  does  not  compass  sublime 
swindles  like  the  merchant,  nor  such  sharp  prac 
tice  as  the  lawyer;  but  in  small  ways  he  is  the 
peer  of  either.  We  do  not  say  that  farmers  are 
any  more  addicted  to  their  characteristic  vices  than 
the  lawyers  and  merchants  are  to  theirs ;  but  that 
they  have  their  peculiarities,  like  other  classes, 
and  that  the  term  honest  is  as  necessary  a  prefix  to 
farmer  as  to  any  other  noun  of  occupation.  We 
admit  all  this,  but  we  believe  it  is  the  fault  of  the 
farmer,  and  not  of  his  circumstances. 

"  His  fault !  "  says  the  farmer,  and  say  many 
men  of  whom  better  things  might  be  expected. 
"How  can  he  get  wisdom  that  holdeth  the  plough, 
and  that  glorieth  in  the  goad,  that  driveth  oxen, 
and  is  occupied  in  their  labors,  and  whose  talk  is 
of  bullocks?"  How?  By  "seeking  her  as  silver, 
and  searching  for  her  as  for  hid  treasures."  For 
remember,  O  farmer!  the  despairing  question  is 
from  below,  the  inspiring  answer  from  above.  It 
is  not  the  Bible,  but  the  Apocrypha,  that  casts 
doubt  upon  agricultural  education.  There  is  wis 
dom  to  him  that  holdeth  the  plough.  Honor  and 
health  and  wealth  and  great-heartedness  are  to  be 
found  in  the  soil.  Earth  is  not  one  huge  encum- 


GLORYING  IN  THE   GOAD.  123 

brance  to  weigh  man  down ;  it  is  the  means  by 
which  he  may  rise  to  heavenly  heights.  Earth 
has  been  the  mother  of  dignity  ever  since  her 
Maker's  eyes  looked  upon  her,  and  the  Maker's 
voice  pronounced  her  very  good.  And  "  Very 
Good  "  is  the  true  verdict.  Ignorance,  stupidity, 
and  sin  insist  upon  perpetuating  the  curse  from 
which  she  has  been  once  redeemed ;  but  a  blessing 
lies  in  her  heart  for  him  who  has  but  the  courage 

O 

to  grasp  it. 

What  analogies  have  they  to  prop  their  conclu 
sions  withal,  who  maintain  the  necessary  degrada 
tion  of  the  soil  ?  Fire,  air,  and  water  bow  down 
and  do  obeisance  to  man.  They  are  analyzed 
and  recombined.  They  are  studied  with  insati 
able  curiosity.  They  receive  the  absorbed  atten 
tion  of  a  lifetime.  Daily  their  secrets  are  wrested 
from  them.  Their  likings  and  their  dislikings 
are  forced  into  man's  service ;  they  are  coupled 
in  strange  unions  and  harnessed  to  his  chariot. 
Whithersoever  he  will,  they  bear  him.  They 
minister  to  his  lowliest  needs,  they  bend  to  his 
loftiest  dreams.  They  have  lifted  him  from  the 
earth  whereon  he  crept,  and  have  given  him  the 
wings  of  the  wind.  Swifter  than  the  eagle  flies, 
swift  as  the  lightnings  flash,  they  run  to  and  fro  at 
his  command.  Nor  has  the  limit  of  their  capaci 
ties  been  reached,  nor  has  man  ceased  to  pry 
into  the  mysteries  which  lie  hidden  in  their  depths. 
He  was  once  their  abject  slave.  He  is  now  their 


124          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

crowned  king.  He  will  one  day  be  their  absolute 
monarch. 

But  while  the  three  ancient  elements  are  thus 
wrought  into  glory  and  honor,  the  fourth  sister, 
Earth,  remains  a  clod.  They  give  gifts  to  men, 
but  she  only  sears  him  with  the  brand  of  servitude. 
Every  bold  seeker,  adventuring  into  their  arcana, 
bears  back  his  treasure-trove ;  but  the  earth  only 
mocks  her  wooer,  and  robs  him  of  his  strength 
who  sleeps  upon  her  knees  ! 

It  is  easy  to  point  to  occurrences  which  appar 
ently  prove  this,  —  to  experiments  which  seemed 
fruitless,  —  to  plans  adopted  only  to  be  laid  aside, 
—  to  new  modes  that  were  heralded  with  great 
flourish  of  trumpets,  and  shuffled  ignominiously  out 
through  the  pantry-door.  But  every  science  and 
every  art  has  had  its  empirical  age,  and  every  age 
has  its  empiricists.  Astrology  spoke  its  great  swell 
ing  words,  made  its  cabalistic  signs,  and  passed 
away  to  its  burial ;  but  astronomy  remains  eternal 
as  the  heavens.  The  stars  cannot  tell  a  man  when 
he  shall  die,  and  they  shine  upon  the  shepherd  as 
brightly  as  on  the  sage  ;  but  they  have  marvellous 
secrets  to  whisper  to  him  who  watches  the  long 
night  through  to  behold  their  coming  and  mark 
the  magic  of  their  ways ;  and  by  so  much  knowl 
edge  unfolded  Earth  takes  her  place  in  the  skies. 
There  was  no  El  Dorado  beyond  the  western  sea 
to  bestow  eternal  youth  upon  the  Spanish  dreamer ; 
but  there  was  a  land  fairer  than  all  his  fancy 


GLORYING  IN   THE   GOAD.  125 

painted,  to  whose  light  the  Gentiles  shall  yet  come, 
and  kings  to  the  brightness  of  its  rising.  The 
philosopher's  stone  has  never  been  found  which 
should  transmute  all  metals  to  gold;  but  gold  it 
self  is  worthless  in  the  presence  of  such  truths  as 
philosophy  reveals.  All  the  way  through,  no 
science  has  been  pushed  to  barren  results.  A 
thousand  errors  have  branched  off  from  the  cen 
tral  truth,  and  have  sometimes  been  mistaken  for 
it ;  a  thousand  false  steps  have  been  made  for  one 
in  the  right  direction  ;  yet  the  truth  is  central  and 
indivisible,  and  men  have  pressed  on  steadily  to 
reach  it.  Counterfeits  do  not  annihilate  the  pure 
coin.  Pretenders  do  not  destroy  faith  in  the 
rightful  prince.  Failures  lead  the  way  to  success. 
Honest,  wise,  persevering  research  has  ever  been 
rewarded  in  full  measure,  pressed  down,  shaken 
together,  and  running  over.  And  it  is  not  to  be 
supposed  that  the  one  science  of  the  earth,  vaster 
and  nobler  than  all  others,  the  science  that  minis 
ters  most  directly  to  man's  life,  shall  be  the  one 
science  to  baffle  his  research  and  yield  him  meagre 
returns.  We  do  not  know  what  wealth  the  earth 
holds  in  store  for  us,  and  it  is  our  shame  and  mis 
ery  that  we  so  little  strive  to  know,  so  little  care 
to  seek.  With  an  ignorance  for  which  our  rich 
experience  leaves  us  no  excuse,  we  doggedly  as 
sume  that  we  have  attained  the  ultimatum.  The 
earth  is  to  us  but  an  immense  pippin  covered  all 
over  with  the  arrogant  label,  "  Seek-no-further." 


126          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

If  fanners  choose  to  accept  this  label  as  their 
motto,  they  should  also  accept  the  consequences 
without  complaint.  If  they  choose  to  live  in  a 
rut,  they  must  not  expect  to  breathe  the  air  which 
they  would  find  on  a  hill.  Many  readers  will 
remember  a  passage  at  arms  that  occurred  in  the 
legislative  assembly  of  one  of  our  New  England 
States.  A  clergyman,  advocating  a  bill  which 
was  to  help  a  certain  class  of  young  men  in  ob 
taining  education,  referred  to  several  persons  who 
had  by  assistance  become  men  of  note,  but  who 
without  it  would  have  remained  "  only  farmers." 
Another  member  immediately  took  umbrage, 
avowed  himself  to  be  a  farmer,  and  assured  the 
assembly  that  he  should  not  vote  for  a  bill  which 
was  to  educate  young  men  to  sneer  at  him !  The 
bill  failed,  —  whether  from  constitutional  weakness 
or  from  this  blow  we  are  not  informed,  but  are 
left  to  infer  the  latter.  The  repartee  wras  very 
good  as  a  repartee,  and  a  respectable  degree  of 
Parliamentary  skill  was  shown  in  seizing  upon  a 
plausible  pretext  for  a  foregone  conclusion ;  but  so 
far  as  the  question  was  of  principle,  and  not  of 
repartee,  the  clergyman  was  right  and  the  farmer 
was  wrong.  We  may  exalt  democracy,  and  abase 
aristocracy,  and  cajole  people  with  specious  phrases. 
Ignorance  and  uncouthness  may  put  on  the  garb  of 
modest  merit,  and  worthlessness  seek  to  veil  itself 
by  an  unattractive  exterior;  but  under  never  so 
many  layers  the  truth  remains  intact.  "  Only  a 


GLORYING  IN  THE   GOAD.  127 

fanner  "  expresses  with  all-sufficient  accuracy  the 
relative  position  of  farmers,  —  not  their  neces 
sary,  but  their  actual  position.  The  occupation 
which  should  be  a  liberal  profession  is  a  most 
illiberal  labor.  Farming  is  honorable,  just  as  any 
other  business  is  honorable,  according  to  the 
amount  of  mind  and  heart  brought  to  bear  on  it. 
Shoemaking  will  always  be  an  inferior  craft  to 
statesmanship,  because  the  amount  of  intellect  re 
quired  is  less  in  the  former  than  in  the  latter. 
The  man  who  aims  at  the  highest  culture,  both  of 
his  farm  and  himself,  is  aiming,  whether  con 
sciously  or  not,  at  the  highest  rank,  and  he  shall 
not  stand  among  mean  men ;  but  he  who  simply 
delves  in  the  dirt  will  find  no  laurels  there.  Fine- 
sounding  phrases  cannot  give  dignity  to  that  which 
is  in  itself  undignified.  No  amount  of  complaint 
can  elevate  prejudice,  obstinacy,  and  routine  into 
intelligence,  generosity,  magnanimity.  Farmers 
themselves  act  upon  this  principle  with  entire 
unanimity,  because  it  is  a  law  of  Nature,  and  not 
an  effort  of  the  will.  The  man  upon  whose  ex 
periments  they  look  with  utter  distrust,  ill-concealed 
contempt,  and  covert  ridicule,  whose  science  seems 
to  them  mere  nonsense,  extravagance,  and  reckless 
ness,  they  at  the  same  time  regard  with  reverence 
and  admiration.  They  look  dcwvn  upon  him  as  a 
farmer,  but  they  look  up  to  him  as  a  man.  They 
are  proud  and  pleased  to  have  his  family  visit  and 
receive  theirs.  They  feel  that  he  is  of  a  different 


128          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

order  from  themselves.  And  if  farmers  persist  in 
keeping  education  and  science  away  from  their 
farms,  if  they  will  bring  only  their  hard  hands  to 
the  work,  and  will  leave  their  brains  to  shrivel  in 
their  skulls,  this  state  of  things  must  go  on.  The 
best  of  materials  is  of  no  use  without  will  and  skill 
to  work  it.  Matter  is  a  sorry  substance  until  mind 
lays  hold  of  it.  The  world  was  not  made  with  tug 
and  sweat,  but  He  spake,  and  it  was  done,  He  com 
manded,  and  it  stood  fast.  As  the  world  was  made, 
so  must  it  be  subdued,  not  by  matter  clawing  at 
matter,  but  by  the  calm  dominion  of  spirit  over 
matter.  Until  intellect  percolates  the  soil,  the  soil 
will  not  part  with  its  hidden  hoards.  We  shall 
have  effort,  struggle,  wear,  and  weariness,  but  no 
victory.  It  is  the  strife  of  clod  with  clod. 

So  it  is  that  the  men  who  grieve  to  bring  their 
minds  into  play  will  never  make  of  their  occupa 
tion  a  profession.  The  people  who  work  mind 
and  muscle,  who  turn  knowledge  into  wisdom, 
shall  stand  before  kings.  Those  who 

"  Keep  in  nninqniring  trust 
The  old  dull  round  of  things  " 

shall  be  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water  to 
the  end  of  the  days.  If  farming  is  doomed,  farmers 
are  doomed.  For  here  is  the  earth  ready-made, 
and  however  much  we  may  dislike  it,  it  is  all  we 
have  and  the  best  we  shall  get.  If  farming  must 
be  mere  mechanical  labor,  —  then  there  is  a  point 
where  elevation  and  improvement  must  stop,  for 


GLORYING   IN  THE   GOAD.  129 

there  must  always  exist  a  class  of  serfs,  —  serfs  to 
the  soil,  slaves  of  their  own  farms  ;  and  none  are 
more  sure  of  this  than  those  who  have  lived  in  a 
farming  community,  and  seen  how  surely  the  ad 
venturous  spirits,  the  active,  the  energetic,  the 
intellectual,  the  promising,  turn  away  from  the 
dismal  monotony  of  the  farm  and  launch  out  on 
currents  of  freer  flow,  or,  if  they  remain  at  home, 
remain  only  in  consequence  of  the  continued  and 
earnest  expostulations  and  the  fairest  promises  of 
parents,  to  rock  the  cradle  of  their  declining  years, 
and  not  unfrequently  to  rock  it  over. 

But  if  the  founders  of  our  Agricultural  College, 
or  if  any  furtherers  of  rural  education,  propose  to 
themselves  to  diffuse  light  by  appealing  to  farmers, 
—  if  they  think  to  correct  the  evils  of  ignorance 
by  furnishing  special  opportunities  to  farmers,  — 
if  they  flatter  themselves  that  they  can  establish  a 
college  of  aims  and  claims  so  moderate  that  farm 
ers  and  farmers'  boys  will  not  be  discouraged  by 
the  time,  money,  or  mind  required,  —  they  are 
spending  their  strength  for  naught.  No  college  and 
no  school  can  be  founded  so  wisely  and  fitly,  that 
farmers  as  a  class  will  send  their  sons  to  it.  Why 
should  they,  believing,  as  they  do,  that  the  dis 
trict-school  already  gives  them  as  much  "  learn- 
in'  "  as  they  need  ?  Boys  there  can  "  read,  write, 
and  cipher."  They  gain  knowledge  enough  to 
reckon  with  the  hired  man,  to  keep  the  tally  of 
the  marketing,  to  compute  interest,  and  to  do  par- 

6*  I 


130          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

ish  business.  What  more  do  they  want  ?  Your 
college-men  will  talk  about  selections  and  tem 
peratures,  silex  and  fluorine  ;  but  what  has  all  that 
to  do  with  planting  the  ten-acre  lot  ?  Timothy 
and  red-top  grew  before  Liebig  was  born.  A  rose 
by  any  other  name  is  just  as  sweet  to  the  agricul 
tural  nose.  Farmers  who  have  grown  to  man 
hood  with  full  faith  in  the  fixity  of  their  condition, 
in  the  impossibility  of  its  improvement,  are  not  to 
be  turned  right-about-face  by  a  programme.  The 
best  patent  cultivator  could  not  root  out  this  main 
article  of  their  creed.  Agricultural  colleges  may 
spread  all  their  blandishments  ;  but  farmers  will 
not  listen  to  the  voice  of  the  charmer,  charm  he 
never  so  wisely.  The  academic  roof  may  be  set 
low  and  the  academic  door  flung  wride  open,  and 
the  academic  Siren,  with  new  and  deeper  meaning, 
may  sweetly 

"  Sing  a  song  of  sixpence,  a  bag  full  of  rye  " ; 

but  before  it  reaches  the  rural  ear,  it  will  have 
transformed  itself  into  a  new  rendering  of  the  fatal 
entomological  civility,  — 
"  '  Will  you  walk  into  my  parlor  ? '  said  the  spider  to  the  fly." 

Reasoning  is  of  no  avail.  Farmers  do  not  grasp 
the  chances  already  offered  them ;  how  should  they 
be  expected  to  possess  themselves  of  future  ones  ? 
Able  treatises  on  breeding,  instructive,  eloquent, 
and  forcible,  are  written  and  printed  ;  but  these 
men  continue  to  tie  up  nightly  their  ill-favored 


GLORYING  IN  THE   GOAD.  131 

and  lean-fleshed  kine,  and  are  weekly  dragged  to 
church  by  loose-jointed  nags  wabbling  over  the 
road,  head  between  legs.  There  are  yearly  re 
ports,  rich  in  suggestion,  well  printed,  cleverly 
illustrated,  distributed  without  cost  —  to  the  re 
ceivers.  They  will  not  read  them.  They  may 
glance  at  the  foreign-looking  sheep,  with  folds  of 
wool  on  his  throat ;  they  will  utter  a  strong  idi 
omatic  exclamation  over  the  broad-sided  short 
horn  ;  but  they  will  not  go  beyond  the  limits  of 
their  own  township  to  replenish  their  stock. 
They  have  not  time  nor  money  nor  heart  for  ex 
periments.  You  prove  to  them  beyond  the  possi 
bility  of  gainsaying  that  their  mode  is  cumbrous, 
and,  in  truth,  extravagant ;  they  will  assent  to 
your  propositions,  admit  the  force  of  your  argu 
ments,  but  inevitably  leave  your  presence  with 
the  remark,  that,  "  after  all,  they  think,  like 
Gran'ma'am  Howdy,  they  'd  better  go  on  in  the 
good  old  diabolical  way,"  —  and  there,  according 
ly,  they  go.  Their  logic  is  devious,  but  it  is  al 
ways  ready.  It  may  not  be  convincing,  but  it  is 
conclusive.  The  major  premise  is  often  hidden, 
but  it  is  as  firm  as  Fate. 

"  Parson  Edwards  's  been  round  with  the 
temperance-pledge,"  says  one  old  fanner  to  an 
other. 

"  Yes,"  answers  the  latter.  "  Came  to  me. 
Asked  me,  says  he,  '  Mr.  Solomon,'  says  he, 
4  have  you  got  any  cider  in  your  suller  ?  '  —  '  Yes, 


132         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

sir,'  says  I,  — '  sixteen  barrels,  good  as  ever  was 
hossed  up,  I  don't  care  where  't  is.'  — '  Well,'  says 
he,  '  Mr.  Solomon,  my  advice  to  you  is,  to  go  an' 
tap  them  barrels,  every  one  on  'em,  an'  let  it 
run  ! '  " 

"  Guess  you  told  him  you  'd  wait  a  spell,  did  n't 
you?" 

"  Humph  !  Let  it  run  !  I  kneiv  his  gran  sir  ! 
Meddlin'  toad !  Advisin'  me  to  throw  my  cider 
away  !  I  KNEW  HIS  GRAN'SIR  !  " 

Whenever  any  amendment  is  suggested,  some 
"  gran'sir  "  or  other  will  be  sure  to  block  the  way. 
That  he  has  been  two  generations  dead,  or  that 
he  has  no  apparent  connection  with  the  point  at 
issue,  may  be  indisputably  proved,  but  it  does  not 
open  the  road. 

Nor  will  the  farmer's  sons  be  any  more  ready 
to  avail  themselves  of  their  college  than  the  farm 
er's  self.  As  a  general  thing,  they  have  either 
ploughed  their  own  furrow  "  in  the  good  old 
diabolical  way,"  and  walk  in  it  as  their  fathers 
walked,  caring  for  no  other,  or  they  have  acquired 
BO  unconquerable  a  repugnance  to  the  unconge 
nial  toil  that  they  cannot  conceive  of  any  plan  or 
process  by  which  it  can  be  made  tolerable.  To 
elevate  farming  by  placing  the  lever  under  the 
farmers  is  to  attack  a  fort  where  its  defences  are 
strongest.  But  we  can  apply  socially  as  well  as 
agriculturally  the  principle  of  a  rotation  of  crops. 
Poets  are  not  necessarily  the  sons  of  poets.  We 


GLORYING  IN  THE   GOAD.  133 

do  not  draw  upon  engineers'  families  for  our  sup 
ply  of  engineers.  The  greatest  statesman  of  the 
age  may  come  from  the  smallest  estate  in  the 
country.  So  also  is  there  no  Medo-Persic  law- 
compelling  the  cultivation  of  our  lands  by  farmers' 
sons.  An  infusion  of  fresh  blood  is  sometimes  the 
best  remedy  for  long-standing  disease  and  weak 
ness,  especially  in  social  organizations.  The  end 
desired  is  not  the  education  of  any  special  existing 
class,  but  the  establishment  of  a  class  fit  to  receive 
in  trust  special  existing  interests.  We  want  our 
country's  soil  to  be  intelligently  and  beneficially 
cultivated.  We  desire  that  it  shall  be  rescued 
from  ignorance  and  from  quackery,  and  placed  in 
the  hands  of  active  intellect  and  sound  sense. 
We  want  our  farmers  to  be  working-men,  not 
day-laborers.  We  want  them  to  be  practical 
farmers,  book-farmers,  and  gentleman-farmers  in 
one.  The  proprietors  of  the  soil  stand  at  the  base 
of  society,  and  should  constitute  by  themselves  an 
order  of  nobility,  —  but  eclectic,  not  hereditary. 
Whenever  a  boy  displays  a  turn  for  agriculture, 
there  is  a  fit  subject  for  agricultural  education,  a 
proper  student  for  an  agricultural  college,  whether 
his  father  were  merchant,  farmer,  policeman,  or 
president.  You  cannot  make  a  college  so  mean 
that  farmers'  sons  will  flock  into  it,  but  you  can 
make  it  so  great  that  the  best  of  all  classes  shall 
press  in.  Endosmose  and  exosmose  are  the  soul 
of  growth ;  either,  alone,  would  bring  death,  — 


134          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

death  on  one  side  from  exhaustion,  on  the  other 
from  over-fulness.  The  city  is  currently  said  to 
draw  its  best  blood  from  the  country.  Let  the 
city  pour  it  back  again  over  field  and  meadow, 
turning  our  wilderness  into  gardens.  Country 
and  city  will  be  invigorated  by  an  exchange  of 
commodities,  —  the  one  giving  of  its  nature,  the 
other  of  its  culture.  We  want  no  exclusiveness, 
aristocratic  or  democratic.  We  want  intelligent 
men  to  develop  the  capacity  of  the  soil.  The 
problem  is,  to  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man, 
—  to  demonstrate  that  He  spake  truth,  when  He 
looked  upon  the  earth  which  He  had  made,  and 
pronounced  it  very  good.  It  is  the  duty  of  this 
generation  to  show  to  the  future  that  agriculture 
opens  a  career,  and  not  a  grave,  to  thought,  ener 
gy,  and  genius.  It  needs  strong  arms  and  stout 
hearts,  but  there  are  bays  to  be  won  and  worn. 
We  want  farmers  who  do  not  look  upon  their  land 
as  a  malicious  menial,  but  who  love  it  and  woo  it, 
and  delight  in  enriching  and  adorning  it.  We 
want  men  who  are  enthusiastic,  —  who  will  not 
be  put  down  by  failures,  nor  disheartened  by  de 
lay,  —  men  who  believe  that  the  Earth  holds  in 
her  lap  richer  stores  than  gold  or  silver,  —  who 
are  not  deceived  by  all  the  niggardliness  that  has 
been  laid  to  her  charge,  but  know  in  their  inmost 
souls  that  she  is  full  of  beneficence  and  power,  and 
that  it  needs  only  to  pronounce  the  "  Open  Se 
same  !  "  to  gam  admittance  to  her  treasure-house 


GLORYING  IN  THE   GOAD.  135 

and  possession  of  her  richest  gifts.  We  want  men 
who  are  willing  to  spend  and  be  spent,  not  for 
paltry  gains  or  sordid  existence,  but  for  gains  that 
are  not  paltry  and  existence  that  is  not  sordid,  — 
for  love  of  truth,  —  men  who  attribute  the  failure 
of  their  experiments,  not  to  the  poverty  of  Nature, 
but  to  their  own  short-sighted,  rough-handed  en 
deavor,  and  who  will  simply  take  heart  and  try 
again,  —  men  who  are  fully  persuaded  in  their 
own  minds  that  there  must  be,  and  are  fully  de 
termined  in  their  own  hearts  that  there  shall  be, 
profit  to  him  that  glorieth  in  the  goad. 

It  is  left  for  our  country  to  show  that  manual 
and  mental  skill,  strength,  exercise,  and  labor  are 
not  incompatible,  —  that  hard  hands  may  comport 
with  gracious  manners,  —  that  one  may  be  a  gen 
tleman  digging  in  a  ditch,  as  well  as  dancing  in  a 
drawing-room.  The  Old  World  groans  under  her 
peasant  system,  —  even  free  England  has  her 
Hodge ;  but  we  will  have  no  peasantry  here,  no 
Hodges  in  hobnailed  shoes,  no  stolid  perpetual 
serfdom  to  nurse  our  vanity  and  pride.  The  very 
genius  of  our  nation  makes  every  man's  manhood 
his  most  valuable  possession.  America  professes 
to  believe  that  no  one  can  with  impunity  evade 
the  decree,  "  In  the  sweat  of  thy  face  shalt  thou 
eat  bread."  She  professes  to  hold  labor  in  honor ; 
but  she  should  show  her  faith  by  her  work.  She 
should  display  her  children  of  labor,  fairer  and  fat 
ter  than  the  children  of  kings  and  princes.  If  they 


136          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

are  seen  to  be  decrepit  in  mind  and  body  before 
their  time,  —  if  they  have  less  happiness  than  the 
Austrian  peasant,  and  less  content  than  the  Eng 
lish  clownr  and  no  breadth  of  vision  or  liberality 
of  thought  or  clear  foresight  to  atone  for  such  de 
ficiency,  we  shall  have  to  compass  sea  and  land 
before  we  make  many  intelligent  men  or  nations 
proselytes  to  our  faith. 

The  time  especially  has  need  of  men.  This 
hour,  and  every  hour  of  the  last  three  years,  ought 
to  prove  to  us  beyond  cavil  that  no  class  can  safely 
be  left  in  ignorance,  least  of  all  the  class  that  holds 
in  its  hands  a  people's  staff  of  life.  Our  country 
needs  all  the  brain,  all  the  conscience,  all  the  nerve, 
and  patience,  and  moral  strength,  that  can  be  com 
manded.  Her  salvation  lies  in  a  yeomanry  ca 
pable  of  comprehending  the  momentous  issues  at 
stake.  "  More  light !  "  is  the  dying  gasp  of  a  dy 
ing  people.  Our  republican  institutions  are  but 
half  completed.  To  give  every  man  the  right  to 
vote,  without  giving  him  at  the  same  time  the 
power  to  vote  intelligently,  is  but  questionable  ser 
vice.  If  such  an  arrangement  were  perpetual,  it 
would  be  unquestionable  disservice.  Only  as  fast 
and  as  far  as  we  keep  enlightenment  abreast  of 
power  are  we  seeing  that  the  Republic  receives  no 
detriment.  Ignorance  is  the  never-failing  foe  of 
freedom,  the  never-failing  ally  of  despotism.  We 
have  organized  and  successfully  fought  a  crusade 
against  tyranny ;  we  are  now  in  the  midst  of  our 


GLORYING  IN   THE   GOAD.  137 

crusade  against  slavery ;  let  us  have  one  more,  or 
ganized  and  efficient,  against  ignorance,  that  the 
fruit  of  our  former  victories  be  not  lost  to  us  for 
lack  of  wisdom  to  use  them  aright. 

That  the  people  who  suffer  most  from  want  of 
knowledge  should  disdain  it  is  but  natural.  To  see 
the  need  of  teaching,  men  must  be  taught.  It  is 
this  very  ignorance  which  is  the  strong  buttress 
against  education.  Ignorance  propagates  itself. 
It  can  be  subdued  only  by  force  or  tact,  not  by  ar 
gument.  But  for  men  who  have  attained  by  the 
help  of  their  education  whatever  reputation  they 
possess  to  affect  to  question  its  importance  is  to 
spurn  the  ladder  by  which  they  have  mounted  to 
eminence.  We  are  sometimes  almost  tempted  to 
suspect  the  existence  of  a  petty  jealousy  in  mem 
bers  of  the  learned  professions.  It  would  seem  as  if 
a  small  fear  were  indulged  lest  a  wider  diffusion  of 
knowledge  and  a  more  thorough  culture  among  the 
farming  classes  should  detract  from  the  supremacy 
of  others.  There  is  certainly,  among  some  writ 
ers,  a  leaning  towards  a  continuance  of  present 
abuses  for  which  it  is  difficult  to  account.  The 
shrewdness  of  the  plain  farmer  is  pitted  against 
the  science  of  the  scholar,  to  the  entire  discom 
fiture  of  the  latter.  But  would  the  plain  farmer's 
shrewdness  be  at  all  diminished  by  educating  the 
plain  farmer  ?  Would  his  sharp  sense  be  blunted 
by  being  expressed  with  some  partial  subjection 
to  grammatical  forms  ?  Would  his  observation  be 


138          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

0 

any  less  close  for  being  trained  ?  Would  his  rea 
soning  be  any  less  profitable  by  being  wisely  di 
rected  than  by  running  at  hap-hazard  ?  Would  it 
not  be  more  economical  to  strengthen  and  polish 
his  powerful  weapons,  and  give  them  honest  work 
to  do,  than  to  leave  them  rough  and  rusty  from 
disuse?  If  education  is  not  the  foe  of  legal,  me 
chanical,  polemic,  nor  forensic  acuteness,  why 
should  it  be  hostile  to  any? 

No  lover  of  his  country  who  brings  to  this  view 
the  same  clearness  and  sense  which  he  takes  to 
political  or  personal  plans,  but  must  hail  as  an 
omen  of  good  the  efforts  now  making  throughout 
the  North  in  behalf  of  agriculture  and  education. 
It  is  a  cause  for  proud  and  grateful  gratulation 
and  congratulation,  that  our  government  is  so  wise 
and  strong  as  to  look  through  all  the  smoke  and 
cloud  of  warfare,  and  set  firm  in  the  tumultuous 
present  the  foundations  of  future  greatness, — 
that,  calm  and  confident,  it  lays  in  the  midst  of 
the  thunder-storm  of  battle  the  corner-stone  of  the 
temple  of  Peace.  It  is  equally  encouraging  to  see 
the  States  from  east  to  west  responding  to  this 
movement,  consulting  with  each  other,  enlisting  in 
the  enterprise  their  best  men,  and  sending  them 
up  and  down  in  the  land,  and  in  other  lands,  to 
observe,  and  collate,  and  infer,  that  the  beneficent 
designs  of  Congress  may  be  carried  out  and  car 
ried  on  in  the  best  possible  manner  for  the  highest 
good  of  all.  So  a  free  people  governs  itself.  So  a 


GLORYING  IN  THE  GOAD.  139 

free  people  discerns  its  weakness  and  unfolds  its 
strength.  So  a  true  aristocracy  will  yet  develop 
a  worthy  democracy.  From  such  living,  far-see 
ing  patriotism  we  augur  the  best  results.  Mis 
takes  will  doubtless  be  made  ;  wisdom  will  not  die 
with  this  generation ;  but  a  beginning  is  the  sure 
presage  of  the  end.  Hesitation  and  precipitancy, 
unseemly  delay,  and  ill-advised  action,  may  retard, 
but  will  not  prevent,  a  glorious  consummation. 
In  these  colleges  we  look  to  see  agricultural  cen 
tres  from  which  shall  radiate  new  light  across  our 
hills  and  valleys.  They  will  not  at  once  turn 
every  ploughboy  into  a  philosopher,  nor  send  us 
Liebigs  to  milk  the  cows;  but  to  every  plough- 
boy  and  dairyman  in  the  country  they  will  give 
a  new  and  wider  horizon.  They  will  bring  fresh 
and  manly  incentives  into  the  domain  of  toil. 
They  will  establish  in  society  a  new  order  of  men, 
—  an  order  whose  mere  existence  will  give  heart 
and  hope  to  the  farmer-lad  disgusted  with  his  nar 
row  life,  yet  unable  to  relinquish  it.  They  will 
send  out  to  us  men  who  have  learned  and  who  will 
teach  that  the  plough,  the  hoe,  the  rake,  are  im 
plements  of  profit  and  honor,  as  well  as  of  indus 
try.  They  will  show  that  the  hand  and  the  head 
may  work  together,  and  that  only  so  can  their  full 
capacity  be  tested.  Science  will  be  corrected  by 
practice,  and  practice  will  be  guided  by  science. 
These  men  will  go  over  the  land  and  quietly  set 
up  their  household  gods  among  our  old-time  farm- 


140          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

ers.  They  will  gradually  acquire  influence,  not 
by  loud-voiced  rhetoric,  but  by  the  silent  eloquence 
of  rich  cornfields,  heavy-laden  orchards,  full-ud- 
dered  kine,  and  merry-hearted  boys  and  girls,  — 
by  the  gentle,  but  irresistibe  force  of  kindly  words, 
pleasant  ways,  ready  sympathy,  a  helping  hand  in 
trouble,  "  sage  counsel  in  cumber,"  — by  the  thou 
sand  little  devices  of  taste  and  culture  and  good- 
fellowship,  —  by  the  cheap  elegances,  the  fine  en 
dearments,  all  the  small,  sweet  courtesies  of  life. 
They  will  approve  the  beneficence  and  the  power 
of  the  Great  Mother;  they  will  demonstrate  to 
farmers  the  possibility  of  large  and  generous  liv 
ing  ;  they  will  teach  them  to  distinguish  between 
the  mountebanks  of  pretended  science  and  the 
apostles  of  that  science  which  alone  is  truth  ;  they 
will  give  to  thought  a  new  direction,  to  energy  a 
new  impulse,  to  earth  a  new  -creation,  to  man  a 
new  life. 


X. 


PICTURES   AND   A   PICTURE. 


WO  kinds  of  talk  are  extant  concern 
ing  pictures.  One  is  that  which  has 
seized  a  few  of  the  floating  technicali 
ties,  and  discourses  flippantly  of  light, 
and  shade,  and  breadth,  and  tone,  mouths  the  "  old 
masters,"  rants  of  Italy,  sneers  at  American  art, 
and  goes  into  raptures,  in  a  public  way,  over  a  bit 
of  old  canvas,  but  is  not  so  absorbed  but  that  it  has 
leisure  to  observe  and  brand  the  indifference  of 
those  who  do  not  share  its  ecstasies. 

The  other  prides  itself  on  being  "no  artist." 
"  It  knows  nothing  of  the  rules  of  art.  But  it 
knows  what  it  likes,  and  is  going  to  like  it,  right 
or  wrong.  Artists  may  sneer,  but  it  is  not  going 
to  be  driven  from  a  picture,  because  the  picture 
was  not  made  with  plumb  and  line."  On  the 
whole,  this  is  rather  more  disagreeable  than  the 
first,  since  that  only  pretends  to  follow  in  the  wake 
of  excellence,  while  this  sets  up  a  claim  to  origi 
nality,  strikes  out  boldly  for  itself,  and  is  sure  to 


142          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

find  hosts  of  admirers  among  our  rampant  democ 
racy.  Ignorance  on  any  subject  is  a  thing  to  be 
repented  of  and  forsaken  if  voluntary,  to  be  si 
lently  borne  if  involuntary,  but  on  no  account  to 
be  exulted  over.  We,  who  boast  our  ignorance, 
forget,  that  though  the  artist,  like  the  poet,  is 
"  born,  not  made,"  he  is  not  born  an  artist.  The 
germ  is  there,  but  many  a  spring's  sunshine,  and 
many  a  summer's  shower,  ay,  and  many  a  winter's 
frost,  must  ripen  it  into  the  mellow  fruit.  The 
possibility  is  there,  but  only  by  careful  study,  con 
stant  trial,  severe  culture,  can  it  be  wrought  into 
a  fact.  Is  it,  then,  reasonable  to  suppose  that  the 
untutored  eye  can  fully  appreciate  the  work  of  the 
tutored  hand  ? 

It  is,  indeed,  a  merciful  dispensation  of  Provi 
dence,  that  the  humblest  day-laborer,  going  home 
from  his  work  at  six  o'clock,  with  his  coat  swing 
ing  over  his  arm,  and  his  tin  pail  in  his  hand,  may 
feel  the  soothing,  elevating  influence  of  the  calm 
sunset  sky,  the  still  fields,  and  the  shining  flood, 
yet  he  but  enters  the  vestibule  of  the'  temple. 
Only  to  her  importunate  child,  —  only 

"  To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,"  — 

does  she  disclose  the  arcana,  —  the  mystic  glory 
that  shines  in  her  holy  of  holies. 

Thus  a  picture  is  not  only  the  measure  of  the 
soul  that  conceived,  and  the  hand  that  wrought, 
but  of  the  eye  that  views  it.  If  you  see  therein 


PICTURES  AND  A   PICTURE,  143 

neither  form  nor  comeliness,  it  may  be  either 
because  form  and  comeliness  are  not  there,  or  be 
cause  your  gross  vision  cannot  discern  their  spirit 
ual  presence ;  and  this  incapacity  may  be  the  re 
sult  either  of  native  deficiency  or  lack  of  training. 

Every  true  picture,  everything  worthy  the 
name,  has  a  body  and  soul.  Canvas,  color,  con 
tour,  are  the  one.  The  idea  that  shines  through 
them  all,  and  invests  them  with  life,  and  glow,  and 
reality,  is  the  other.  Where  the  soul  is  wanting, 
all  else  may  be  perfect,  the  body  complete,  but  the 
picture  says  nothing  to  you.  It  is  mere  dead 
matter.  There,  may  be  pretensions  to  life,  a  con 
vulsive  and  contorted  struggling,  as  it  were,  to 
compass  life,  but  you  have  no  love  wherewithal  to 
endow  the  fair  Undine  with  an  immortal  soul. 

But  this  soul  of  the  picture  does  not  sit  en 
throned  on  the  surface,  to  be  profaned  by  vulgar 
gaze.  Eye  may  meet  eye,  but  heart  alone  can 
speak  to  .heart.  Of  ten  men  who  pass  before  a 
painting,  nine  may  pass  on  unheeding.  It  is  to 
them  blank  and  meaningless,  like  the  marks  of  cer 
tain  chalk  on  window-glass ;  but  when  you  draw 
near,  you,  the  tenth,  and  breathe  upon  it  the 
breath  of  your  life,  by  an  unerring  instinct  it 
recognizes  your  soul.  Quickly  life  leaps  into  the 
picture, — flashes  into  the  statue  the  Promethean 
fire,  quivering  in  every  limb,  glowing  in  every 
lineament,  till,  as  you  gaze,  it  passes  into  your  be 
ing,  to  become  a  part  of  yourself  forevermore. 


144          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

This  life,  this  pathos  and  power,  depend  less  on 
the  subject  than  on  the  manner  of  handling  it. 
We  have  all  looked  coolly  on  representations  of 
dying  saints,  surrounded  by  a  maze  of  infant  cher 
ubs  and  full-grown  angels,  wings  and  crowns  and 
floating  garments;  and  we  have  perhaps  felt  the 
cheek  flush  and  the  heart  throb  at  the  sunlight 
streaming  in  through  a  kitchen -window ;  for  the 
one  was  vague,  crude,  and  perchance  ridiculous ; 
while  the  other,  simple  and  direct,  carried  us  swift 
ly  back  to  home,  and  childhood,  and  mother's  love. 

Yet  mere  fidelity  is  of  little  worth.  You  recog 
nize  the  mechanical  skill,  but  you  say,  "  Why  be  at 
infinite  labor  to  reproduce  what  is  so  much  better 
at  first  hand  ?  "  An  artist  gives  us  a  landscape 
wherein  all  the  trees  are  of  the  requisite  size  and 
shape, —  the  rocks  duly  distributed  and  overgrown 
with  moss,  the  brooks  running  the  way  of  all 
brooks.  We  do  not  know  why  we  are  not  moved, 
but  we  are  not.  We  acknowledge  a  certain  cor 
rectness.  We  cannot  put  a  finger  on  this  or  that, 
and  say,  "  It  is  not  like."  But  we  feel  no  coolness 
in  the  shadow  of  the  rocks,  —  no  longing  to  dint 
the  soft  moss  with  our  weary  feet.  We  do  not 
hear  the  plashing  of  the  water  as  we  break  with 
our  hands  its  rippling  flow,  or  the  whisper  of  the 
south-wind  in  the  tops  of  the  pine-trees. 

Another  landscape  laps  us  in  the  drowsy  repose 
of  summer.  Herd-boys  lie  on  the  grass  in  all  the 
luxury  of  outstretched  ease,  scarcely  heeding  the 


PICTURES  AND  A   PICTURE.  145 

meek-eyed  cows  who  chew  the  cud  of  their  benev 
olent  thoughts  —  cows  always  look  benevolent,  or 
at  least  complacent  —  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees 
whose  huge  trunks  and  dense  foliage  make 

"  Rome's  cathedral  awe  live  in  these  woodland  aisles." 

The  air  of  noonday,  filtered  of  its  heat,  breathes, 
grateful  and  refreshing,  through  shadowy  corridors 
defiant  of  the  meridian  sun.  There  is  no  merry, 
tricksy,  "  laughing  water,"  or  trim,  turfed,  well- 
bred  pond,  but  a  happy,  languid,  good-natured 
pool,  on  whose  still  surface  the  lazy  lilies  spread 
out  their  broad  leaves  and  drink  in  the  liquid 
coolness  as  they  float.  Gay  flowers,  that  gather 
richness  from  unseen  sources,  flaunt  in  dank  lux 
uriance  on  its  margin,  and  homely  weeds  dip  their 
feet  unrebuked  in  its  welcome  waves.  On  every 
leaf,  and  twig,  and  blade  of  grass,  is  written, 
"  Summer." 

A  third  speaks  also  of  repose,  but  repose  un 
der  a  different  aspect.  One  is  earthly ;  the  other, 
spiritual.  One  is  the  dreamy,  compulsory  languor 
of  the  South ;  the  other,  the  voluntary,  serene  rev- 
ery  of  the  North.  One  is  an  idyl  piped  by  Arca- 
diart  shepherds  in  a  vale  of  Tempe ;  the  other  is 
the  pure  soul  of  some  silver-throated  maiden,  gush 
ing  out  in  low-voiced  song  at  evening-tide.  In 
one  we 

"  Feel  the  warm  Orient  in  the  noonday  air  " ; 

through  the  other  we 

"  From  cloud  minarets  hear  the  sunset  call  to  prayer." 
7  j 


146          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

Land,  water,  and  sky,  combine  to  form  that  per 
fect  beauty  which  "  is  a  joy  forever."  A  fairy 
lake,  liquid  gold  where  the  light  falls  unobstructed, 
deepening  into  purple  where  the  shadows  linger, 
smiles  back  answering  joy  to  the  radiant  heavens. 
From  the  purpling  waters  stretch  away  the  purple 
hills,  paling  into  violet,  flushing  into  pink,  glowing 
into  gold,  till,  losing  their  earthliness,  bathed  and 
fused  in  the  heavenly  glory,  they  shine,  translu 
cent.  Still  and  stately,  the  tall  trees  stand  clearly 
outlined  against  the  sky.  Rose-tinted  clouds  float 
softly  in  the  amber  air.  A  white  sail  swells  to 
the  wooing  breeze,  but  no  sound  breaks  the 
charmed  silence.  The  mists  that  spiritualized 
Helvellyn  for  her  poet  priest,  wrap  the  scene  in 
a  delicious  haze  of  softness  and  sweetness.  Gaz 
ing,  you  are  borne  out  beyond  the  world  and  the 
things  of  the  world.  Will  that  pleasant  path, 
winding  over  the  hills  towards  the  sunset,  lead 
you  indeed  to  the  sea  of  glass  mingled  with 
fire  ?  On  such  a  chariot  as  yonder  lush  cloud 
did  the  beloved  of  the  Lord,  in  old  time,  pass  from 
glory  to  glory?  The  dying  day?  Yea,  verily, 
but  the  dying  day  folds  her  royal  robes  about  her, 
and  sweeps  down  to  death  with  a  grandeur  and 
a  grace  that  might  well  befit  the  majesty  of  her 
morning. 

Looking  at  such  a  picture,  fragments  of  verse, 
snatches  of  old  songs,  remembered  tones  of  voices 
long  silent,  float  murmurously  through  the  cham- 


PICTURES  AND  A   PICTURE.  147 

bers  of  your  brain.  Now,  a  ringing  epithet  from 
Tennyson,  it  may  be ;  then,  a  diamond  found 
among  the  toads  and  frogs  that  dropped  from 
old  Dekker's  lips,  or  a  self-singing  line  from  the 
"poet  of  poets;"  or  a  sunbeam  from  some  stray 
ballad  that  lives  in  the  heart  of  a  people,  though 
the  author's  name  and  fame  are  buried  with  his 
unknown  dust,  —  flitting  so  vaguely,  yet  chiming 
so  perfectly,  that  we  scarcely  perceive  their  sepa 
rate  presence,  yet  are  imperceptibly  lulled  by  them 
into  harmony  and  peace  ;  just  as  the  summer  wind 
bears  through  the  woods  the  mingled  scent  of 
violet,  and  pansy,  and  white-robed  Innocence,  and 
sweet-smelling  arbutus,  which  yet  we  think  not 
of  resolving,  but  only  stand  in  happy  waiting,  and 
snuff  the  odorous  breeze.  In  smaller,  in  apparent 
ly  trifling  things,  the  same  power  is  revealed.  A 
child's  shoe  may  be  well  painted,  and  yet  be  only 
a  shoe.  A  hat  is  but  plaited  straw,  and  a  top  a 
bit  of  carved  and  painted  wood.  But,  in  the  hands 
of  a  master,  the  worn  shoe,  the  battered  hat,  and 
bruised  top,  will  speak  of  a  little  form  gone  back  to 
dust,  —  a  silent  chamber,  wherein  the  patter  of 
childish  feet  will  never  more  be  heard,  —  a  hearth 
whose  light  and  life  and  joy  are  quenched  in  sud 
den  night.  What  a  picture  thus  says  to  you,  is  the 
measure  of  its  worth  to  you.  You  may  see  faults 
many  and  glaring,  but  everywhere  we  reverence  a 
great  purpose  even  if  imperfectly  fulfilled,  a  grand 
conception  faithfully,  honestly,  even  if  unsuccess- 


148          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

fully  attempted,  rather  than  petty  ends  achieved. 
Or  the  picture  may  be  applauded  by  every  one 
with  unbounded  enthusiasm,  but  if  your  own  soul 
is  not  fired,  it  is  no  revealer  to  you.  It  may  be 
from  the  old  masters  or  the  young  pupils,  from 
'the  world-renowned  artist,  or  the  obscure  den 
tist's  apprentice  ;  but  you  alone  must  be  the  judge 
whether  it  speaks  to  you.  If  the  wise,  and 
learned,  and  good,  are  moved  by  what  moves 
you,  you  may  be  glad  thus  to  recognize  kinship 
with  them ;  but  if  otherwise,  you  may  keep  your 
own  counsel,  but  you  must  be  true. 

Thus  it  is  that,  while  painting  holds  out  no 
invitation  to  arrogance  and  conceit,  it  offers  no 
discouragement  to  ignorance.  They  who  have 
never  looked  upon  •  the  masterpieces  of  the  Old 
World  may  be  lifted  to  a  higher  level  by  the 
masterpieces  of  the  New. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  understand  the  technicali 
ties  of  Art.  If  you  do  but  love  grassy  plains  and 
running  water,  if  you  ever  admired  a  cloud,  or 
thought  of  a  mountain,  you  possess  all  the  requi 
sites  for  an  interval  of  unalloyed  happiness  in 
looking  at  Bierstadt's  picture  of  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains.  It  is  only  to  go  up  a  staircase  or  two, 
through  a  passage  or  two,  round  a  corner  or 
two,  into  a  darkness,  into  a  light,  and  —  you 
are  no  longer  in  the  studio-building  on  Tremont 
Street,  —  you  have  crossed  rivers,  lakes,  woods, 
and  valleys.  You  have  left  behind  you  rail- 


PICTURES  AND  A   PICTURE.  149 

roads,  and  batteries,  and  Boston,  and  civiliza 
tion.  You  have  stridden  out  to  the  border-lands 
of  the  Angles.  You  have  struck  the  trail  of  the 
savage.  You  have  mounted  the  crest  of  the 
great  mysterious  wave  that  swelled  in  the  far 
Orient  centuries  and  centuries  ago,  curving  west 
ward,  sweeping  over  the  steppes  of  Russia,  over 
the  meadows  of  Germany,  over  the  vine-lands 
of  France,  surging  up  against  the  white-faced 
shores  of  England,  pausing  but  for  a  moment, 
then,  with  gathered  strength,  thundering  at  the 
gates  of  our  western  world,  curving  westward, 
ever  westward,  over  prairies  and  deserts,  pursu 
ing  the  pathway  of  the  sun,  till  now  it  foams 
around  the  base  of  the  inaccessible  mountains. 
Here,  beyond  its  farthest  reach,  you  pause.  Only 
the  spray  of  the  advancing  tide  flings  its  coolness 
at  your  feet.  Here  the  Indian  plants  his  tent-pole 
and  takes  his  stand,  —  barbarism  against  civiliza 
tion.  But  neither  stand  nor  fight  shall  avail  him. 
Already  the  wave,  fretting  within  its  rocky  bar 
riers,  has  found  itself  an  outlet  by  the  South,  and 
while  the  "  poor  Indian  "  counts  his  wampum  and 
smokes  his  pipe  in  fancied  peace,  lo !  it  storms  up 
from  the  West,  deep  calling  unto  deep,  till  there 
shall  be  left  for  his  wandering  dove  no  olive-leaf, 
and  pipe  and  wampum,  wigwam  and  hunting- 
ground,  are  whelmed  in  the  relentless  flood. 

Rest  then,  while  we  may,  in  this  peaceful  Indian 
village.     A  broad,  level  plain,  fronting  the  moun- 


150          SKIRMISHES  AXD  SKETCHES. 

tains.  Through  the  broad  plain  we  may  walk 
ankle-deep  in  the  rich,  dank  verdure,  but  the 
mountains  rise  white  and  awful  to  the  skies. 
Jagged  and  precipitous,  unpressed  by  mortal  foot 
but  scarred  with  many  a  glacier,  they  lift  their 
hoar  heads,  silent  amid  all  the  sound,  wan  amid 
all  the  color,  still  amid  all  the  stir,  shining  amid 
all  the  shadow.  Tender  growths  creep  timidly  up 
their  furrowed  sides,  but  quickly  faint  for  want  of 
cherishing,  and  pale  into  eternal  snow  upon  their 
brows.  Warmth,  and  greenness,  and  life,  all  are 
chilled  in  the  pitiless  cold  that  riots  around  those 
unsealed  heights.  Towering  in  the  centre  above 
his  brethren,  Mount  Lander,  king  by  virtue  of  pre 
eminence,  throws  back  his  head  and  faces  the  sun 
with  a  royal  disdain.  Or,  in  softer  mood,  the  after 
noon  light  crowns  him  with  such  heavenly  radiance 
that  he  stands  bathed  in  glory,  his  face  upturned 
in  reverence  to  God.  How  late-born  is  society, 
how  flitting  is  man,  when  we  hold  such  commun 
ion  !  Yesterday  a  race  was  born ;  to-morrow  it 
passes  away;  but  the  everlasting  mountains  are 
not  scattered ;  the  perpetual  hills  have  never 
bowed.  Monuments  of  God's  might,  they  rise 
sublime  above  the  littleness  of  life,  confronting 
us  with  their  desolation.  No  ingenuity,  no  ava 
rice,  no  ambition,  can  clothe  these  rugged  slopes 
wjth  fertility,  or  mingle  the  song  of  bird  or  hum 
of  bee  with  their  paean  of  the  winds.  Yet  Grand 
eur  and  Beauty  meet  together  there  ;  Strength 


PICTURES  AND  A  PICTURE.  151 

and  Service  have  kissed  each  other.  In  the 
darkening  day  they  frown,  they  lower,  they 
menace,  and  we  tremble  under  their  overhanging 
steeps.  But  flooded  with  sunlight,  a  veil  of  silvery 
mist  is  flung  about  them,  and  the  terrible  outlines 
are  lost  in  loveliness.  Icy  cold,  they  stand  unceas 
ing  benefactors.  Their  wildest  storm-song  is  a 
chant  of  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men.  Heaped 
and  hidden  in  their  perpetual  snows,  they  keep  the 
treasures  of  the  valleys.  Blessings  of  dale  and  up 
land,  blessings  of  field  and  orchard,  blessings  of 
fruit  and  flower,  trickle  down  to  us  from  their 
bleak  and  stony  breasts.  The  dew  of  our  youth 
is  in  the  womb  of  their  morning. 

Born  of  the  glacier  and  the  sunshine,  little 
brooks  leap  down  the  dark  defiles,  rushing  head 
long  into  one  wilful  water,  which  rends  for  itself 
a  chasm,  and  tears  through  the  rocks,  a  reckless 
Undine,  fantastic  and  uncontrolled.  Now  in  the 
shadow,  now  in  the  sun,  it  tosses  aloft  its  joyous 
spray,  till  you  almost  feel  the  grateful  shower,  al 
most  hear  the  uproar  of  its  wild  wassail.  But 
soon  its  uproar  is  hushed.  Its  headlong  haste  is 
lulled  into  a  limpid  calm.  It  floats  out  on  the 
plain,  a  little  lake,  soft,  clear,  molten,  holding  in 
its  deep  heart  the  tender  shadows  of  the  moun 
tains,  sweet  and  pure  and  still.  Ah !  well  may 
the  frisky  Undine  pause  in  her  morning  song  and 
steady  her  flying  feet  for  the  long  journey  that 
lies  before  her.  This  Laughing-water,  this  Min- 


152         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

nehaha  that  darts  out  in  a  frolic  from  her  moun 
tain-home,  shall  broaden  and  deepen  into  grave 
Colorado.  From  her  cradle  in  the  rocks  she  shall 
go  down  her  steep  stairways  into  the  Indian  val 
leys,  down  among  the  waving  wheat-fields  and  the 
golden  corn-lands,  through  the  depths  of  dreadful 
forests  into  the  shining  of  hidden  silver,  through 
many  a  rift  -of  tortured  rock,  with  sweep  and 
swirl,  raging  and  raving,  a  thousand  miles  to  the 
sea.  Let  her  pause  one  breathing-space  before 
she  starts  on  her  winding-way.  But  we  will  not 
follow  her  winding-way.  Rather  will  we  sit  on 
the  smooth  green  bank,  under  the  shade  of  these 
cotton-wood  trees,  and  dip  our  feet  in  the  caress 
ing  waves.  We  will  walk  under  these  leafy- 
arches,  we  will  pierce  this  profound  shade  that  is 
rest,  not  gloom,  and  stroll  a  half-mile  up  that 
lovely  glen ;  surely  we  shall  find  there  such  a 
Happy  Valley  as  Rasselas,  Prince  of  Abyssinia, 
never  saw  or  dreamed  of.  Faint  and  far  the 
echoes  of  deadly  warfare  reach  our  ears,  blend 
ing  with  the  music  of  summer  sounds  that  charm 
away  their  bitterness  and  bale.  One  moment  die 
out,  mad  strife  of  might  and  right,  and  give  for 
clashing,  peace.  Here  are  small  interests,  small 
acts,  the  homely  life  of  a  pristine  race,  —  old,  so 
old  that  no  history,  no  tradition,  reaches  back  to 
unfold  the  secret  of  its  birth ;  yet  forever  young 
and  crude  and  rude,  impervious  to  civilization,  but 
terribly  open  to  deterioration  and  death.  Tents 


PICTURES  AND  A    PICTURE.  153 

of  rough  poles  and  rougher  skins,  blackened  with 
smoke  and  hardened  by  wind  and  weather,  form 
the  straggling  village.  They  look  not  ill,  har 
monizing  with  the  landscape,  dotting  the  plain, 
or  snuggling  under  the  coverts  of  the  trees,  but 
they  must  be  dingy  and  doleful  within.  You 
would  say,  however,  that  one  need  not  go  with 
in.  Domestic  life  seems  to  be  carried  on  out 
doors.  Dusky  figures  reclining  on  the  green 
sward,  gay  colors  gorgeous  in  blanket  and  robe, 
grotesque  shapes  blazoned  on  tent-cloth  and  out 
lined  on  garments,  —  what  wild  life  is  this  here 
in  the  heart  of  our  nineteenth  century?  What 
paganism  lurks  in  the  outskirts  of  our  Christian 
ity  ?  What  religion  stands  side  by  side  with 
the  Bible,  under  the  very  shadow  of  the  Cross, 
yet  symbolizes  itself  with  poles  and  embroidered 
cloth?  For  this  it  is  that  shall  drive  away  the 
principalities  and  powers  of  the  air  and  keep  the 
village  free  from  the  wiles  of  imps.  Occupations 
are  intimated  in  the  pile  of  slaughtered  sheep 
and  birds,  and  the  great  grizzly  bear  that  lies  out 
stretched  and  stiff,  the  centre  of  a  gazing  circle. 
The  cuisine  is  simple  and  secure.  Fishes,  stuck 
lengthwise  on  a  stick,  hold  grim  conclave  round 
a  generous  fire.  The  nursery  discipline  is  direct 
and  perfect.  Witness  the  pappoose  strapped  to  a 
board  and  set  upright  against  a  tent.  O  Civili 
zation  !  which  of  your  intricate  systems  furnishes 
any  substitute  for  this  summary  and  sensible  pro- 
7* 


154          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

cess?  It  is  a  rural  communism,  a  free,  open, 
careless  social  life.  Dogs,  children,  horses,  all 
have  a  share  in  the  common  work  and  common 
weal.  There  is  no  fiery  Bucephalus,  no  match 
less  Don  Fulano,  but  weaiy  nags  that  may  have 
done  their  day's  work  handsomely,  but  stand  now 
listless  and  limp,  or  crop  lazily  the  rank  herbage, 
or  nestle  head  to  head  with  dumb  affection  after 
the  manner  of  horses.  Mother  and  child,  warrior 
and  war-steed,  all  somewhat  less  regal  than  Coop 
er's  genius  limned  them,  stud  the  plain  with  their 
relaxed  nomad  life.  One  little  fellow  kneels 
breathless  behind  the  burrow  of  a  marmot,  his 
tense  bow  set  to  twang  death  at  the  first  pair  of 
bright  eyes  that  shall  dare  to  peep  out.  Little 
Indian  boy,  the  sheep  and  fatlings  are  enough.  I 
truly  hope  you  will  miss  your  aim.  I  believe,  in 
deed,  that  you  are  expending  your  patience  in 
vain,  for  the  very  marmot  you  seek  is  perched 
here  on  a  rock,  and  from  the  elevation  of  his  hind 
legs,  is  laughing  heartily  at  this  safe  distance  to 
see  what  a  fool  he  has  made  of  you.  And  still 
above  squaw  and  pappoose,  above  marmot  and  vil 
lage  and  limpid  lake,  bends  the  blue  sky,  rise  the 
solemn  mountains,  shines  the  summer  sun,  smiles 
the  Eternal  Father.  It  is  difficult  to  remember 
as  you  gaze  that  it  is  but  a  picture.  Once,  twice, 
you  may  peer  in  from  the  outside,  unacquainted, 
and  not  forget  that  you  are  in  a  great  city,  in  her 
whirl  of  dust  and  din.  But  looking  with  fond 


PICTURES  AND  A   PICTURE.  155 

persistence,  suddenly  the  portals  are  swung  open. 
You  do  not  so  much  see,  —  you  stand  among  the 
mountains.  You  feel  the  breath  of  their  inspira 
tion.  The  little  clouds  that  sail  so  naively  across 
the  sun  cast  their  umbrage  at  your  feet.  You 
watch  the  shadows  chasing  each  other  up  the  stri 
ated  slopes,  or  stretching  under  the  cliffs  to  melt 
and  mingle  with  the  shadowy  waters,  and  cannot 
believe  they  are  but  "  the  consecration  and  the 
poet's  dream."  Your  own  head  is  bared  to  the 
balmy  airs,  and  shines  on  you  the  fitful  light  that 
now  dances  along  the  steeps,  toying  with  the  sturdy 
verdure,  now  flickers  over  the  fixedness,  to  crown 
with  a  glory  this  granite  repose,  now  hovers  above 
the  shimmering  mist  of  the  cascade,  or  rests,  a 
benediction,  on  the  lake.  The  coolness  of  the 
valley,  the  silence  of  the  mountains,  the  grand 
calm  and  peace  fill  your  heart.  A  deep  content, 
that  has  no  speech  nor  language,  settles  into  the 
inmost  recesses  of  your  life.  An  aspiration,  di 
vine,  and  yet  most  human,  that  soothes  at  once 
and  stirs,  shuts  you  in  from  the  glare  and  glamour 
of  earth-born  strife,  lifts  you  to  the  heights  of 
heavenly  fellowship,  and  while  your  feet  press  the 
clods  of  the  valley,  you  stand  face  to  face  with 
the  Immortals ! 


XI. 


A    SUGGESTION. 


TV  "'LACK  !  *'  used  Dr.  Beecher  to  say, 
when  young  men  asked  him  if  he 
thought  they  could  get  "a  place "  to 


S  labor  hi  at  the  West,  —  "  Place !  the 
West  is  all  '  place ' ;  you  can't  go  amiss  of  a 
*  place  ' ;  make  one,  anywhere  !  " 

The  West  may  be  all  place,  but  it  is  not  the 
whole  of  place.  Here  in  the  East  are  many 
"  places  "  unoccupied,  and  with  no  prospect  of  im 
mediate  occupation.  At  the  same  time  there  is  a 
large  floating  population  of  ministers.  Therefore 
one  can  but  question  whether  our  present  mode 
of  bringing  demand  and  supply  together  is  the 
best  mode. 

There  is,  for  instance,  a  country  parish  in  a 
country  village,  which  for  two  or  six  or  a  dozen 
years,  has  been  "  running  down."  It  has  suffered 
from  the  presence  of  a  feeble  pastor,  or  from  a 
heavy  debt,  or  from  the  loss  of  its  substantial 
members,  or  from  the  bitterness  of  some  long- 


A   SUGGESTION.  157 

standing  feud.  From  whatever  cause,  it  is  at 
ebb-tide,  and  suddenly  finds  itself  without  a  pas 
tor.  It  is  not  a  particularly  desirable  field  of 
labor,  looked  at  abstractly ;  but  there  will  be 
plenty  of  laborers  to  offer  their  services.  Now 
there  are  many  things  to  be  considered.  Perhaps 
in  its  palmiest  days,  the  parish  paid  six  hundred 
doUars  a  year  to  the  clergyman.  In  its  low  estate 
it  would  hardly  like  to  offer  less ;  but  if  this  sum 
is  to  be  raised,  it  must  be  done  either  by  having  a 
man  who  will  win  over  the  disaffected  pockets,  or 
else  by  inducing  the  few  who  are  conscientious  and 
Christian  to  double  and  treble  their  own  share,  in 
order  to  make  up  for  the  deficiencies  of  the  others. 
And  these  very  men  will  probably  be  the  ones 
who,  from  their  superior  intelligence  and  charac 
ter,  disburse  the  largest  charities,  and  incur  the 
largest  expenses  in  other  directions.  The  preach 
ing  of  the  Gospel,  therefore,  and  the  support  of 
the  minister,  necessitate  an  indirect  extortion. 
Those  who  do  not  guide  their  lives  by  strict 
religious  principle,  but  by  whim,  prejudice,  and 
likings,  will  not  pay  their  share  of  the  minister's 
salary,  and  those  who  do,  have  a  heavy  burden  to 
carry,  besides  their  own  lawful  part,  which  is  no 
burden. 

Now  why  should  ministers  adopt  a  course  differ 
ent  from  that  which  is  adopted  by  doctors,  law 
yers,  grocers,  shoemakers?  None  of  these  ever 
go  to  the  principal  men  in  a  village  and  bargain 


158          SKlR,\fISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

for  a  salary.  They  begin  on  their  own  responsi 
bility.  It  is  a  run  for  luck.  The  lawyer  and  the 
doctor  put  up  their  "  sign  "  and  await  briefs  and 
patients.  If  they  are  skilful,  practice  comes,  and 
sometimes  if  they  are  not.  Without  overpowering 
genius,  they  obtain  a  fair  share  of  business,  get  a 
comfortable  living,  marry,  are  chosen  selectmen 
and  school  committee,  and  to  many  other  honor 
able  offices,  and  live  happily  all  their  days.  But 
nobody  ever  guarantees  them  anything.  Why 
should  not  ministers  follow  their  example  ?  I 
know  that  there  is  a  more  settled  routine  for  them, 
and  therefore  a  fixed  salary  is  more  practicable. 
But  though  the  routine  is  settled,  the  minister  is 
not.  Whether  a  young  clergyman  will  be  success 
ful  is  just  as  problematical  as  whether  a  young 
doctor  or  a  young  lawyer  will  be.  The  only  way 
they  ascertain  is  by  trying.  Let  the  young  minister 
adopt  the  same  mode.  He  preaches  awhile.  He 
is  liked  by  some,  disliked  by  others,  and  causes  but 
indifference  in  others.  The  former  would  like  to 
"  settle  "  him,  but  although  they  are  in  a  majority, 
the  minority  is  still  large,  and  without  the  assistance 
of  the  latter  his  salary  can  hardly  be  wrenched  out. 
Besides,  if  they  should  settle  him,  it  is  a  question 
what  the  result  will  be.  He  may  win  over  the  hos 
tile  and  the  indifferent,  or  he  may  turn  the  latter 
into  the  former,  and  the  former  into  active  foes, 
and  then  in  a  few  years  there  will  be  a  quarrel, 
and  a  council,  and  heart-burnings,  and  mischief, 


A   SUGGESTION.  159 

and  so  the  name  of  God  is  blasphemed  among  the 
Gentiles  through  them  of  the  circumcision. 

Now,  when  a  young  man,  having  been  grad 
uated  from  a  theological  seminary,  hears  of  a 
"  place,"  why  could  he  not  repair  thither,  and 
instead  of  terms,  and  bargains,  and  calls,  and  can- 
didating,  simply  ascertain  whether  the  situation  is 
such  that  it  is  worth  while  for  him  to  try  to  fill  it  ? 
If  he  decides  that  it  is,  then  why  not  apply  to  the 
authorities  for  permission  to  occupy  the  pulpit, 
and  visit  the  people,  and  try  his  hand?  Let  no 
salary  be  so  much  as  mentioned.  The  people  do 
not  yet  know  what  he  is,  nor  what  he  is  worth, 
nor  whether  he  is  worth  anything.  By  and  by; 
if  he  is  suited  to  the  place,  and  the  place  is 
suited  to  him,  the  indifferent  people  will  come  to 
church,  the  indifferent  hearts  will  be  aroused,  love 
will  be  awakened,  justice  will  be  revived,  and  the 
laborer  having  been  found  worthy  of  his  hire,  will 
be  worthily  paid.  If  some  plan  were  devised 
by  which  every  member  of  the  parish  should 
know  every  year  exactly  what  his  share  of  the 
parish  expense  ought  to  be,  the  minister  would 
have  a  direct  money  criterion  of  his  market  value. 
So  many  as  pay  him,  so  many  suffrages  has  he. 
So  many  as  do  not  pay  him,  so  many  votes  are 
cast  against  him.  If,  at  the  end  of  a  year  or  two, 
he  has  not  educated  the  people  up  to  the  point  of 
paying  him  on  the  score  of  justice,  or  touched 
them  to  the  depth  of  paying  him  on  the  score  of 


160          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

love,  he  has  so  far  failed.  But,  as  it  should  be, 
the  penalty  of  the  failure  rests  on  him,  not  on  the 
few  faithful  and  active  members  of  his  parish 
and  church,  who  are  in  no  wise  guilty  of  his  in 
efficiency.  And  if  he  is  not  able  by  his  own 
powers  and  piety  to  lead  the  community,  ought 
he  to  wish  his  weakness  to  be  bolstered  up  by  the 
kindness  of  friends.  If  he  cannot  stand  alone, 
should  he  not  go  where  he  can,  rather  than  remain 
leaning  on  this  and  that  parochial  staff  ? 

The  question  may  arise  what  is  he  to  live  on 
while  he  is  passing  through  his  probation,  and 
receiving  no  pay  ?  I  reply,  just  what  the  doc 
tor  and  the  lawyer  live  on  under  the  same 
circumstances.  They  obtain  occasional  fees  for 
occasional  services,  and  almost  always  there  will 
be  conscientious  and  just  people  in  a  parish, 
even  when  the  minister  enters  it,  who  will,  for 
the  right's  sake,  be  as  prompt  as  client  or 
patient.  Meanwhile,  let  the  young  minister  re 
member  that  he  is  the  servant  of  Him  who  had 
not  where  to  lay  his  head.  Let  him  not  shrink 
from  faring,  for  love  of  Christ,  no  better  than 
thousands  fare  for  love  of  money.  If  worse  comes 
to  worst,  let  him  try  squatter  sovereignty.  A 
very  little  money  and  the  labor  of  his  own  hands, 
will  build  him  a  shelter  as  good  as  the  soldier's 
barracks,  and  this  hut  let  him  turn  into  a  palace 
by  the  purity  of  his  heart  and  the  dignity  of  his 
life.  Let  him  show  the  people  indisputably,  that 


A   SUGGESTION.  161 

lie  is  in  earnest,  that  he  is  not  seeking  salary,  but 
souls  ;  that  his  profession  is  not  dilettanteism,  but 
a  life-work  ;  that  he  counts  fashion  and  style  and 
luxury  as  nothing,  if  they  stand  in  the  way  of  his 
errand.  Let  them  see  that  his  mission  is  not  of 
this  world  ;  that  he  is  well  content  with  locusts 
and  wild  honey,  if  so  he  can  but  feed  them  with 
the  bread  of  life.  Then  the  people  will  be  di 
vested  of  that  feeling  which  many  seem  to  have 
that  the  minister  is  despoiling  them  ;  that  the 
money  which  goes  to  him  is  a  gift,  a  gratuity. 
Of  course,  he  must  acquaint  them  in  the  begin 
ning  with  his  line  of  action,  so  that  they,  as  well 
as  he,  may  act  intelligently.  They  must  know 
that,  however  good  or  great  he  may  be,  his  ulti 
mate  tarry  with  them  depends  upon  his  receiving 
an  adequate  support ;  but  they  must  also  know 
that  his  adequate  support  is  only  means  to  an  end, 
and  that  he  will  show  them  that  he  is  somewhat 
able  to  accomplish  that  end  before  they  shall  be 
expected  to  furnish  means.  The  young  man  will 
perhaps  have  to  endure  hardships,  but  he  is  a 
soldier  of  the  cross.  Let  him  nourish  the  true 
missionary  spirit,  remembering  that  not  pagans 
only  bow  down  to  wood  and  stone,  but  that  Chris 
tendom,  too,  is  but  slightly  Christianized.  If  he 
utterly  fails  to  secure  a  generous  support,  let  him 
console  himself  with  the  reflection  that  he  is  only 
bearing  on  his  own  shoulders  the  burden  which 
would  otherwise  fall  on  the  shoulders  of  a  few 


162          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

men  in  his  parish  to  whom  it  did  not  belong. 
And  if  repeated  trials  result  in  repeated  failures, 
still  the  army  and  the  navy,  and  the  rich  Western 
prairie  lands  lie  open  to  him,  and  no  man  of  ordi 
nary  sense,  health,  and  prudence  need  starve  in 
America. 


XII. 
A    COURT    CRIME. 

superintending  through  stormy  times 
1H  the  affairs  of  one's  own  country,  one 
Hi'j  is  sometimes  obliged  to  let  foreign 
misdemeanors  pass  unnoticed  for  a 
while ;  which  explains  the  reason  why  I  have 
suffered  a  crying  sin  in  England's  high  places  to 
go  these  four  months  all  unrebuked. 

An  English  correspondent  of  an  American  news 
paper  says : — 

"  I  learn  that  there  was  quite  a  rebellion  at 
Windsor  Castle.  The  Princess  vehemently  op 
posed  having  a  wet  nurse,  and  the  Prince  took 
her  side,  and  could  not  see  why  she  should  not  be 
allowed  to  nurse  the  babe,  as  she  strongly  desired 
to  do.  But  she  was  told  that  the  court  traditions 
could  not  be  set  aside  ;  never  was  English  prince 
or  princess  yet  nursed  by  its  own  mother.  So  the 
healthy  and  virtuous  Mrs.  O'Somebody  was  sent 
for,  and  the  Princess  had  a  long  cry.  This  is  a 
true  story,  and  somewhat  more  valuable  than  or 
dinary  court  gossip." 


164         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

What  a  story  is  this  to  be  true  !  True  in  a 
Christian  country,  and  one  that  has  been  a  Chris 
tian  country  for  many  a  hundred  years  !  If  true, 
it  is  a  blot  on  the  British  escutcheon,  a  shame  to 
British  civilization.  Are  there  no  women  in  Eng 
land,  that  court  traditions  are  allowed  to  lord  it 
over  instinct?  Are  there  no  men  in  England  who 
have  sentimentalized  concerning  maternity  and  in 
fancy  as  the  manner  of  men  is,  that  they  have  not 
risen  in  a  body  to  rescue  from  the  hands  of  the  Phi 
listines  this  outraged  young  mother,  —  this  poor 
little  girl,  who  left  father  and  mother,  sisters  and 
brothers,  home  and  country,  trusting  herself  to 
the  promised  love  and  tenderness  of  a  strange  and 
foreign  nation  ?  English  women  have  been  great 
ly  shocked  because  slavery  was  permitted  to  exist 
under  our  flag  of  the  free,  and  have  counted  and 
recounted,  with  ever-increasing  horror,  its  dreadful 
deeds  of  darkness,  —  the  slave-husband's  inability 
to  protect  his  wife,  the  slave-mother's  agony  for 
the  baby  torn  from  her  arms.  Their  horror  was 
just.  It  was  honorable  to  their  sensibility.  It 
was  the  unerring  testimony  of  Nature  against  a 
cruel  wrong,  —  a  crime  against  Humanity,  —  a 
sin  against  God.  But  if  a  child  is  to  be  torn  wan 
tonly  and  violently  from  its  mother's  bosom,  does 
it  make  any  difference  whether  it  is  done  on  the 
eastern  or  western  side  of  an  ocean  ?  by  the  white, 
small  hands  of  an  English  lady,  or  the  sun-browned 
ones  of  an  American  slave-dealer  ?  Is  morality 


A    COURT  CRIME.  165 

an  affair  of  latitude  or  longitude,  of  pedigree  or 
profession  ?  If  one  must  be  bound,  what  matter 
whether  the  chain  be  of  gold  or  iron  ?  The  differ 
ence  between  fetters  and  freedom  is  not  a  differ 
ence  between  one  metal  and  another.  If  this  story 
be  true,  the  second  lady  in  England  is  a  slave. 
She  is  under  the  control  of  an  arbitrary  power,  — 
a  power  which  is  not  of  God,  and  not  of  law, — and 
what  is  this  but  slavery  ?  And  this  slavery  con 
cerns  the  most  vital  interests.  This  arbitrary,  ir 
responsible  power  thrusts  itself  into  the  innermost 
sacred  shrines  of  life,  and  is  thus  utterly  offensive, 
utterly  intolerable.  This  slavery  England  toler 
ates.  Has  a  single  protest  been  made  against  such 
usurpation  ?  Has  a  single  voice  been  lifted  high 
enough  to  reach  the  ear  of  that  court  tyrant, 
Tradition,  and  to  bring  to  his  guilty  heart  one 
throb  of  misgiving  ?  Yet  if  the  English  people 
really  willed  that  their  future  Queen  should  not 
be  deprived  of  the  freedom  which  the  meanest  of 
her  subjects  enjoy,  could  they  not  accomplish  it  ? 
Cannot  the  English  voice  penetrate  the  English 
court,  and  give  to  a  father  and  mother  control 
over  their  own  child  in  matters  where  other  con 
trol  is  contrary  to  the  law  of  God  ? 

That  the  Princess,  in  a  strange  land  and  a 
strange  family,  should  have  made  so  stubborn  a 
fight  as  she  did,  is  the  best  thing  we  have  yet 
known  of  her,  and  all  that  we  have  known  is 
good.  I  have  heard  that  there  are  women  who, 


166          SKIRMfSB&S  AND  SKETCHES 

of  their  own  will  and  choice,  not  constrained  by 
circumstances,  decline  to  nurse  their  own  babies ; 
choose  to  give  them  over  to  hirelings !  I  do  not 
know  how  that  may  be,  but  if  such  beings  do  exist, 
I  should  consider  them  as  beings  laboring  under 
some  moral  deformity,  —  not  to  be  blamed,  perhaps, 
but  very  much  to  be  pitied.  Princess  Alexandra 
is  none  of  these.  Evidently  she  holds  "  her  un 
crowned  womanhood  to  be  the  royal  thing."  She 
is  neither  Queen  nor  Princess,  but  a  happy  wife 
and  mother,  counting  nothing  in  court  or  kingdom 
so  delightful  as  her  own  little  pink,  fat,  shapeless, 
senseless  darling ;  and  having  tasted  the  bitter 
ness  of  death,  which  is  spared  to  neither  high  nor 
low,  she  is  denied  the  sweetness  and  solace  which 
the  humblest  mother  in  the  world  may  enjoy.  It 
is  an  aggravated  outrage  !  O  poor  little  head 
waiting  to  be  crowned  !  If  the  shadow  of  the 
bawble  brings  such  'sorrow,  what  will  its  press 
ure  be  ? 

Let  us  hope  that  the  Prince  of  Wales,  as  he 
grows  older,  will  grow  stronger,  —  strong  enough 
at  least  to  rule  in  his  own  household  when  his 
rule  is  right,  and  in  line  with  his  wife's  wishes. 
In  the  present  case  he  seems  amiable,  but  not 
commanding ;  less  authoritative  than  might  be 
reasonably  looked  for  in  a  prince,  and  demanded 
in  a  husband  and  father.  We  are  told  that  he  is 
going  to  give  a  blow  to  tradition  that  will  shake 
the  whole  island,  by  substituting  the  frock-coat  for 


A    COURT  CRIME.  167 

the  dress-coat,  —  or  the  dress-coat  for  the  frock,  I 
cannot  speak  with  certainty.  But  if  the  Prince 
of  Wales  is  strong  enough  to  make  the  solid  earth 
tremble  under  his  feet  by  causing  a  change  of 
costume,  surely  he  is  strong  enough  to  do  it  by 
causing  a  change  of  custom.  If  he  can  put  down 
a  fashion  that  overspreads  his  empire,  he  can  cer 
tainly  put  down  one  that  stalks  only  through 
Windsor  Castle.  If  he  can  raise  a  great  commo 
tion  for  so  small  a  matter  as  the  shape  of  a  gar 
ment,  he  can  raise  a  small  commotion  for  so  great 
a  matter  as  a  soul's  weal  and  a  soul's  happiness. 
We  may  hope  too,  that  as  the  Princess  grows 
older,  and  becomes  more  wonted  to  her  position 
and  mistress  of  the  situation,  she  will  take  matters 
into  her  own  hand,  as  she  certainly  gives  promise 
of  developing  an  ability  to  do,  and  cease  to  im 
plore,  where  she  has  a  right  to  command. 

Meanwhile,  where  is  Queen  Victoria  with  her 
world-renowned  home-virtues,  that  she  should  not 
hafve  a  queenly  word  to  say  in  an  affair  so  purely 
and  vitally  domestic  as  this?  She  whose  pride 
and  glory  it  has  been  to  bring  up  her  children 
herself,  —  could  s*he  not  interpose  in  behalf  of 
nature  against  an  arbitrary,  inexcusable,  traditional 
whim  ? 

One  cannot  help  regretting  that  the  pretty 
Princess  did  not  cry  longer.  I  suppose  she  did 
the  best  she  could,  and  she  showed  admirable 
spirit,  and  a  truly  womanly  and  lovely  character 


168          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

in  doing  what  she  did.  Evidently  she  protested 
vehemently,  entirely  regardless  of  past  and  future, 
of  fashion  or  etiquette,  and  indeed  of  everything 
but  the  one  intense  desire  to  nurse  her  own  baby, 
like  the  good,  honest  girl  she  is.  But  there  is 
never  any  use  in  crying  for  anything,  unless  you 
cry  till  you  get  it.  To  stop  short  of  the  object  is 
worse  than  not  to  begin.  .  And  more  than  this,  if 
you  do  stop,  you  are  sure  to  stop  at  the  very  point 
where  the  opposition  was  beginning  to  give  way. 
I  have  no  doubt  that,  if  Alexandra  could  have  held 
out  ten  minutes  longer,  the  healthy  and  virtuous 
Mrs.  O'Somebody  would  have  been  directed  to 
pack  up  her  health  and  her  virtue  and  go  home, 
and  the  little  lord  would  have  been  restored  to  his 
rightful  lady;  whereas  by  "behaving  herself" 
prematurely,  she  is  daily  subjected  to  the  un 
speakable  indignity  of  seeing  her  own  baby  at 
another  woman's  breast. 

It  is  a  great  gratification  to  know  that  the  little 
fellow  cried  vociferously  through  the  whole  cere 
mony  of  his  christening.  Virtuous  wet-nurse, 
grandmother  Queen,  and  court  tradition  were 
powerless  to  restrain  or  modify  his  shrieks.  I 
have  no  doubt  it  was  because  his  milk  disagreed 
with  him,  —  naturally  enough  since  nature  had  not 
intended  it  for  him,  but  made  it  to  the  order  of 
another  baby.  I  sincerely  hope  that  he  will  con 
tinue  to  avenge  his  dear  mamma,  and  disgrace  the 
court  by  squalling  at  the  top  of  his  lungs  on  every 


A    COURT  CRIME.  169 

public  occasion,  till  he  is  twenty-one  years  old, 
and  ceases  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  to  be  an  infant. 
Then,  possibly,  court  tradition  may  no  longer  im 
piously  set  itself  up  against  God's  own  beautiful 
ordinances,  and  unless  it  can  dispense  with  the  in 
stitution  of  babies  altogether,  may  not  deprive 
that  institution  of  its  most  delightful  features. 
Then  it  is  to  be  hoped  "  the  blessings  happy 
peasants  have"  may  belong  also  to  crowned  and 
uncrowned  queens 


XIII. 


MOB    PATRIOTISM. 


INGE  the  wise  man  has  informed  us 
that  as  in  water  face  answereth  to 
face,  so  does  the  heart  of  man  to 
man,  we  ought  not,  perhaps,  to  be 
surprised  at  seeing  in  our  borders  occasional  out 
bursts  of  the  same  lawlessness  as  that  which  ex 
cites  our  reprobation  in  the  South.  Nevertheless 
we  cannot  look  upon  them  without  mortification. 
They  tend  to  show  that  the  anti-slavery  sentiment 
of  the  North,  and  the  pro-slavery  sentiment  of  the 
South,  are  matters  of  soil,  climate,  and  locality, 
not  of  intelligent,  enlightened  Christian  principle. 
Mobs  at  the  South  attack  a  man  for  attachment 
to  the  Union.  Mobs  at  the  North  attack  him  for 
indifference  to  the  Union.  The  former,  owing  to 
their  hotter  blood,  are,  perhaps,  more  violent  and 
demonstrative  than  the  latter ;  but  the  two  stand 
otherwise  on  the  same  footing.  Both  are  equal 
ly  brutal,  cowardly,  and  indefensible.  Nay,  the 
Southern  mob  is  more  excusable  than  its  North- 


MOB  PATRIOTISM.  171 

ern  counterpart.  They  are  in  constant  danger. 
They  in  many,  perhaps  in  most  cases,  no  doubt 
honestly  believe  that  their  victims  have  been 
tampering  with  destructive  implements ;  that  the 
loyalty  of  the  slaves  and  the  lives  of  the  mas 
ters  are  at  stake,  and  can  be  saved  only  by  the 
severest  treatment  of  those  whom  they  believe 
guilty,  —  and  it  is  sheer  self-defence  in  them  to 
ward  off  even  the  appearance  of  danger.  If  they 
go  further  than  they  need,  if  they  sometimes  see 
trouble  where  none  exists,  if  they  confound  trivial 
with  serious  things,  and  by  excessive  caution  and 
rigor  accelerate  and  aggravate  the  evil  which  they 
dread,  the  greatness  and  imminence  of  the  calam 
ity  is  their  excuse  ;  but  we  do  not  believe  that  one 
man  in  ten  at  the  North  apprehends  any  personal, 
or  municipal,  or  national  danger  from  the  man 
whose  house  or  stall  he  surrounds,  and  whom 
he  forces  to  raise  a  flag,  or  to  disclaim  or  retract 
words  which  he  had  previously  spoken.  The  ob 
noxious  persons  are  in  a  hopeless  minority,  their 
reputation  not  brilliant,  nor  wide-spread,  and 
their  influence  small.  The  proceedings  against 
them  are  all  that  makes  their  names  known  be 
yond  their  own  immediate  circle.  Moreover,  if 
danger  is  apprehended,  of  what  use  are  the  means 
taken  to  prevent  it?  If  a  man  is  a  traitor  at  heart, 
is  he  any  less  a  traitor  because  a  motley  crowd 
forces  him  to  raise  the  "  Red,  White,  and  Blue  ?  " 
If  he  is  concocting,  aiding,  or  abetting  rebellion, 


172          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

can  he  not  go  on  just  as  blithely  under  the  Stars 
and  Stripes  as  under  the  Palmetto-tree  ?  If  a 
man  does  anything  contrary  to  law,  let  the  law 
be  brought  to  bear  upon  him  in  full  force.  If  he 
is  not  doing  anything  contrary  to  law,  he  should 
be  left  unmolested.  If  his  sentiments  are  un 
worthy  of  a  patriot  while  his  words  and  deeds 
are  not  amenable  to  the  law,  you  can  refuse 
to  buy  his  meat,  or  shoes,  or  broadcloth,  or 
pills,  or  sermons,  or  grain.  You  can  avoid  so- ' 
cial  intercourse  with  him,  and  thus  express  your 
disapprobation,  with  sufficient  force  and  distinct 
ness  for  all  practical  purposes.  But  every  time 
a  mob  collects  and  forces  a  man  by  threats  to 
make  a  speech,  or  raise  a  flag,  or  do  anything 
which  of  his  own  free  will  he  would  not  do, 
the  cause  of  Liberty  and  Republicanism  is  de 
graded.  Every  citizen  who  lends  himself  to  such 
uses  helps  to  lower  his  State  to  the  level  of  the 
rebellious  States,  and  sets  Massachusetts  side  by 
side  with  South  Carolina,  or  as  much  lower  than 
South  Carolina  as  the  institutions  of  Massachusetts 
are  higher.  Cotton-mob  men  can  hardly  help  be 
ing  ignorant  and  brutal.  Born  in  hovels,  bred  on 
whiskey,  they  naturally  grow  up  into  lewd  fellows 
of  the  baser  sort ;  but  Massachusetts  men  have  had 
opportunities  enough  to  be  intelligent  and  well- 
mannered,  and  if  they  are  not,  it  is  their  own 
fault.  Their  moral  education  ought  also  to  show 
them  that  there  is  an  essential  cowardice  in  assem- 


MOB  PATRIOTISM.  173 

bling  twenty,  fifty,  or  a  thousand  men,  against  one. 
Their  numbers  give  them  immunity  from  danger, 
so  that  they  run  no  risk,  while  making  him  run 
all  risks.  They  are  for  the  time  voluntary  slave 
holders,  and  as  tyrannical  as  it  is  possible  for  a 
slaveholder  to  be.  They  judge  by  hearsay,  and  in 
their  riotous  organization  often  do  gross  injustice, 
even  on  their  own  rude  principle ;  insulting  men 
who  are  just  as  patriotic  as  themselves.  Patriotic ! 
It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  the  feeling  which 
raises  mobs  is  a  whit  more  truly  patriotic  than  the 
feeling  which  mobs  are  raised  to  suppress.  Love 
of  country  which  displays  itself  in  violating  the 
laws  of  country,  is  a  very  questionable  sentiment. 
Freedom  of  speech  and  of  opinion  is  the  foundation- 
stone  of  the  Republic.  Anything  which  would 
destroy  that,  runs  counter  to  the  whole  current  of 
our  institutions,  and,  in  essence,  is  treason  in  the 
first  degree 


XIV. 


ELLEN. 


BEHIND  yonder  close-drawn  curtain  I 
know  a  still  form  lies. 

For  warmth,  coldness,  —  for  song, 
silence,  —  for  mirth,  mourning,  —  for 
life,  death. 

War  has  reaped  his  red  harvests  on  many  a  bat 
tle-field.  Sorrow  has  stalked  through  the  land, 
scattering  broadcast  his  seeds  of  woe.  But  no 
breadth  of  grief  diminishes  its  depth.  A  desolated 
hearth  is  just  as  desolate  as  if  desolated  hearths 
were  not  shivering  all  around  it. 

There  are  tears  for  heroes  fallen,  for  stately 
homes  laid  waste  ;  but  none  the  less  there  shall  be 
tears  for  a  lowly  life  departed,  a  lamp  gone  out  in 
a  cottage  chamber. 

Irish  Ellen.  Good  and  faithful  soul,  with  the 
warm,  rich,  island  blood  leaping  in  every  pulse. 
Brown  hair  as  deep,  as  glossy,  and  abundant  as 
ever  lay  parted  over  royal  brows,  —  brown  eyes 
full  of  the  soft  light  of  love  and  laughter,  —  the 


ELLEN.  175 

sunshine  nestles  there  no  more.  They  have  gone 
down  to  darkness  and  the  grave. 

I  hear  a  little  cooing  voice  that  cannot  yet  even 
speak  the  mother's  name,  but  only  purrs  out  a 
blind,  ignorant  joy.  I  hear  the  wavering,  un 
steady  tread  of  little  feet  that  have  but  just  learned 
their  uses,  and  go  stumbling  and  failing  with  keen 
delight  in  a  new-found  power.  But  I  hear  no 
more  the  old  sound,  —  the  mother's  embracing 
voice  that  wrapped  around  the  baby-gurgling  with 
its  caressing  tones.  Always  I  heard  that  sound 
responsive  to  the  baby-voice,  —  never  failing, 
never  tired,  never  less  full  of  fondness  and  fresh 
ness  than  at  the  first,  —  a  dear  duet,  sweet  as  the 
song  of  the  new  creation  when  the  morning  stars 
sang  together ;  joyful  as  that  old  acclaim  when  all 
the  sons  of  God  shouted  for  joy. 

O,  the  unfathomable  depth  of  the  mother-heart 
that  lies  now  all  unheeding !  The  unutterable 
love  that  no  pain  could  terrify,  no  care,  no  work, 
nor  watching  tire  !  War  and  poverty  and  taxa 
tion  were  nothing.  Weariness,  impatience,  ambi 
tion  found  no  entrance  there.  Love, — pure,  clear, 
full,  perfect  content  in  a  baby-life,  made  the  even 
ing  and  the  morning  the  first  and  the  eternal  day. 
Even  old  Ireland  beckoned  in  vain.  All  the  mu 
sic  of  the  spheres  was  drowned  in  that  little  cooing 
voice.  All  the  motion  of  the  universe  centred  in 
those  little  stumbling  feet. 

And  the  baby  will  forget  his  mother.     Now  his 


176          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

little  heart  feebly  recalls  her.  Now  and  then  a 
faint  wail  moans  over  his  lips  for  the  lips,  the 
voice,  the  bosom  that  he  vaguely  misses.  Now 
his  blind  hands  fumble  at  the  door,  groping  for 
the  mother  that  lies  within,  —  mother  no  more, 
• —  a  statue,  a  stone,  a  death.  Sad  is  the  dim 
sorrow  of  that  tiny  life,  but  saddest  of  all  the  cer 
tainty  that  it  will  so  quickly  pass  away.  To-mor 
row  and  to-morrow  it  will  be  less.  In  a  week 
there  will  be  no  trace.  All  that  boundless  love, 
that  inexhaustible  treasure-trove  of  tenderness, 
will  be  as  if  it  had  never  been.  Is  it  not  a  waste  ? 
He  will  grow  up  and  never  know  it.  No  mem 
ory  will  recall,  no  inspiration  will  reveal  to  him 
that  ocean  of  love  in  which  his  young  life  was 
lapped  and  lulled  to  dreamless  ecstacy.  Was  it 
not  a  waste  ?  O,  Ellen,  on  whatever  far-off 
world  you  walk  in  white,  in  whatever  garments 
of  praise  your  soul  has  robed  herself,  do  you  not 
miss  and  mourn  this  little  cooing  voice,  these  little 
stumbling  feet  ?  Even  in  the  heaven  of  heavens 
can  you  find  any  joy  that  can  quite  atone  for  this  ? 
O,  faithless  heart !  what  words  are  these  ?  Eye 
hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  heard,  neither  have  en 
tered  into  the  heart  of  man,  the  things  which  God 
hath  prepared.  He  hath  made  man,  male  and 
female  in  his  own  image.  Fatherhood,  mother 
hood,  meet  in  God.  He  will  satisfy  the  wants 
which  he  has  created. 

It  was  but  a  homely  life  that  Ellen  led,  and 


ELLEN.  HI 

homely  virtues  those  with  which  she  adorned  it. 
A  short  and  happy  life  seamed  with  sorrows,  —  a 
life  spent  in  the  kitchen,  at  the  wash-tub  and  the 
ironing-table,  —  such  a  life  has  little  to  commend 
it  to  the  world's  regard.  Yet  many  and  many  a 
man  lives  in  the  full  blaze  and  bray  of  renown, 
and  his  passing  away  will  be  commemorated  with 
the  varied  pomp  of  requiem,  and  slow-moving  pro 
cession,  and  stately  mausoleum,  who  will  deserve 
less  of  his  country  than  this  young  Irish  exile.  A 
humble  work  well  done  shall  find  a  better,  though 
not  a  surer,  guerdon  than  the  indulgence  of  an 
intellectual,  esthetic,  or  sensual  selfishness,  calling 
itself  by  whatever  name  it  choose.  Ellen  stood  at 
the  wash-tub  and  the  ironing-table,  and  neither 
crease  nor  stain  marred  the  purity  of  the  white 
folds  that  passed  under  her  hands.  She  ordered 
the  table,  and  every  spoon  knew  its  place.  She 
went  through  the  chambers,  and  no  fairy's  wand 
ever  did  completer  work  than  mop  and  broom  in 
those  stout  red  arms  of  hers.  Speck  and  fleck  fled 
before  her,  giving  up  the  battle  half-fought  from 
sheer  faint-heartedness.  And  she  wrought  cheer 
ily.  Her  work  was  a  song.  Nothing  was  too 
much  for  her.  The  day  was  never  too  long  nor 
the  task  too  hard.  She  never  gave  eye-service. 
She  did  everything,  and  then  she  polished  it,  — 
making  a  poem  of  drudgery.  Dishonesty  or  false 
hood  never  came  near  her.  I  think  there  were 
sharp  possibilities  in  those  soft  brown  oyes,  but  I 
8*  i, 


178          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

never  struck  fire  from  them,  nor  ever  saw  the 
lightnings  flash.  Always  beneficent  herself,  in 
exhaustible  in  kindnesses  and  all  good  deeds,  she 
overflowed  with  gratitude.  A  little  bunch  of 
white  Innocence,  plucked  for  her  dead-born  baby 
about  to  be  borne  to  his  burial,  commanded  her 
perpetual  vassalage.  The  smallest  token  of  re 
membrance,  slender  services  of  the  merest  simple 
consideration,  she  repaid  with  such  full  measure 
of  thanks,  and  such  signal  strength  of  thew  and' 
nerve,  deeming  no  return  sufficient,  as  put  to 
shame  our  cold  acknowledgments. 

O  sovereign  mystery  of  death  !  What  is  this 
change  that  comes  so  swift,  yet  so  slow,  —  so  still, 
yet  with  such  sudden  shock  ?  Yesterday,  a  warm, 
living,  loving  person  ;  to-day  a  Thing,  —  a  Terror. 
Yesterday,  she ;  to-day,  it.  Yesterday,  here,  liv 
ing  among  the  old  faces,  the  old  places ;  to-day,  no 
farthest  star  so  remote. 

And  what  is  this  that  lies  here  pallid  and  un- 
beautiful  ?  What  is  that  which  is  gone  and  left 
it  so  ?  Whence  came  the  life  that  flushed  and 
filled  this  temple  ?  Whither  has  it  fled  and  left 
a  tomb  ?  Where  in  all  the  infinite  universe, 
where  among  the  ineffable  glories  of  the  visible  or 
invisible  heavens,  where  beyond  all  that  eye  hath 
seen  or  can  see,  dwells  the  flitted  soul  ?  Has  the 
spark  glowed  into  a  flame  ?  Is  the  little  rush 
light  of  earthly  love  lost  ? —  no,  that  cannot  be  ! 
God  grant  that  can  never  be  !  but  overflooded 


ELLEN.  179 

with  the  celestial  radiance?  What  and  whence 
and  whither  ? 

Vainly  we  question.     There  is  no  reply. 

She  has  solved  the  problem.  This  Ellen,  late 
so  familiar  to  us  ;  so  humble,  so  deferent,  so  little 
wise,  so  ministrative  to  our  comforts,  so  subor 
dinate  to  our  wants,  —  she  has  rent  the  veil.  She 
has  passed  beyond  our  sight  into  the  Unknown 
Land.  She,  who  used  to  receive  wonderingly 
our  shreds  of  information,  might  now,  if  we  could 
gather  at  her  feet,  tell  us  the  strange  story  which 
no  man  knows.  Statesmen,  philosophers,  sages, 
—  all  might  hang  on  her  lips,  and  learn  the  awful 
secret. 

Ignorance,  Doubt,  Fear,  hear  what  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ  saith:  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the 
life :  he  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead, 
yet  shall  he  live. 


XV. 


A  WORD  TO  THE  INCONSIDERATE. 


HERE  is  such  a  disease  —  especially 
in  New  England  —  as  consumption. 
It  is  greatly  dreaded  because  it  is  sup 
posed  to  be  incurable.  It  is  not  a 
positive  thing  that  rushes  at  its  victim  and  strikes 
him  down  in  a  day.  It  is  a  lurking,  subtle  foe, 

—  flattering,    deceiving,    terrifying.       The    busy 
wife  and  mother  has  been  weak  and  listless,  and 
unable  to  "  turn  off  work "  for  the  last  year  or 
two ;  her  step  has  grown  manifestly  feebler,  and 
her  cheek  paler  than  it  used  to  be ;  her  husband 
has  taken  her  to  the  seaside,  and  the  Springs,  and 
the  mountains,  and  has  consulted  all  the  famous 
doctors,  and  even  looks  with  interest  at  the  col 
umn  where  patent  medicines  are  advertised ;  not 
withstanding,  she  occasionally  loses  her  voice,  and 
speaks  in  a  whisper,  perhaps  for  months  together, 

—  begins  to  lie  in  bed  late  in  the  morning,  and  to 
tremble  before  the  raw  northeast  winds.    It  is  very 
sad,  and  the  hearts  of  those  who  love  her  are  filled 


A   WORD  TO  THE  INCONSIDERATE.     181 

with  foreboding.  But  do  not  therefore  kill  her 
with  kindness.  Oranges  and  grapes,  cooling  fruits 
and  simple  delicacies,  to  a  limited  extent,  may  be 
grateful  to  her ;  but  a  woman  not  in  robust  health 
is  not  a  Wantley  dragon,  that  can  devour  by  the 
bushel  cakes,  jelly,  pastry,  highly-seasoned  meats, 
and  all  manner  of  pickled  and  potted  things.  Rea 
son  would  seem  to  teach  that  there  cannot  be  much 
comfort  in  seeing  one's  self  surrounded  with  dainties 
which  one  cannot  touch.  A  bunch  of  flowers,  or 
a  single  flower,  or  a  curious  moss,  or  a  pretty  en 
graving,  or  a  pencil  sketch,  would  be  vastly  better, 
—  anything  that  takes  the  invalid  out  of  herself,  — 
that  directs  her  attention  to  something  else,  which 
is  one  of  the  roads  to  recovery.  But  the  sight  of 
food  that  one  cannot  eat,  forces  attention  to  the 
fact  that  one  cannot  eat,  and  so  the  carefully  pre 
pared  dish  is  not  only  useless,  but  discouraging,  — 
to  all  except  the  Irish  girl  in  the  kitchen,  who 
fares  sumptuously  as  long  as  it  lasts. 

Nor  is  it  well  to  question  the  invalid  too  often 
respecting  her  health.  If  she  were  suffering  from 
an  acute  and  violent  disease,  whose  aspects  have 
new  significance  every  hour,  and  whose  culmina 
tion  is  momently  expected,  inquiry  would  be  excus 
able.  But  she  is  not.  She  is  in  precisely  the  same 
condition  one  day  as  another,  so  far  as  can  be  seen. 
If  there  is  change,  it  is  imperceptible.  She  and 
her  friends  are  living,  and  waiting,  and  hoping, 
and  trying.  Did  you  ever  think  how  much 


182          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

difficulty  she  finds  in  answering  your  inquiry? 
"  Pretty  well,  thank  you,"  is  out  of  the  question, 
because  she  is  not  pretty  well.  She  cannot  file  a 
bill  of  particulars  every  day,  and  what  resource 
has  she  ?  It  is  much  better  to  show  sympathy 
in  some  other  way.  Be  patiently  receptive,  but 
not  officiously  inquisitive  of  facts.  When  there  is 
anything  of  moment  you  will  learn  it  in  one  way 
or  another.  Ask  the  doctor,  and  if  he  snubs  you, 
reflect  that  it  was  best  you  should  be  snubbed,  and 
rejoice  that  you  asked  one  who  had  a  right  to  do 
it,  and  not  your  friend,  who  would  have  been  re 
strained  by  gratitude. 

Especially  is  it  not  well  to  ask  the  invalid's  hus 
band,  confidentially,  "  What  do  you  think  of  her?  " 
adding,  by  way  of  consolation,  "  It  does  not  seem 
to  me  she  can  live."  In  the  first  place,  human  na 
ture  is  the  most  uncertain  thing  in  the  world.  A 
man  may  dispense  with  lungs  entirely.  At  least 
there  is  a  man  yet  living  and  in  firm  health,  whose 
doctors  told  him  twenty  years  ago  that  his  lungs 
were  gone'.  A  woman  who  had  consumption  to 
the  degree  of  losing  her  voice  for  years,  and  taking 
leave  of  her  friends,  has  just  set  up  a  boarding- 
house.  People  never  know  what  they  can  live 
through  till  they  have  tried  it.  Our  Creator  did 
not  make  us  stingily.  He  left  a  broad  margin. 
We  can  give  up  a  good  many  outposts  before 
the  citadel  must  surrender  ;  and  the  fight  is  so 
prolonged,  that  often  by  the  time  it  is  over,  we 


A   WORD  TO  THE  INCONSIDERATE.     183 

should  have  had  to  yield  in  the  natural  course  of 
things. 

And  suppose  your  friend  cannot  live,  what  is 
gained  by  such  a  remark  ?  Are  her  chances  for 
life  increased?  Is  she,  or  are  her  friends,  prepared 
to  meet  death  with  fortitude  ?  Hope  is  the  great 
opponent  of  disease  ;  when  a  man's  spirits  give 
way,  his  strength  follows.  To  dishearten  him  is 
to  kill  him.  "  He  that  loses  money,"  says  the 
old  Spanish  proverb,  "  loses  much ;  he  that  loses 
friends  loses  more;  he  that  loses  his  spirits  loses 
all."  The  sons  of  the  prophets  at  Jericho  heard 
that  Elijah  was  to  be  taken  up  by  a  whirlwind  to 
heaven,  and  they  came  out  in  great  excitement  to 
meet  Elisha.  "  Knowest  thou  that  the  Lord  will 
take  away  thy  master  from  thy  head  to-day  ? " 
"Yea,  I  know  it,"  answers  Elisha,  heart-sick; 
"hold  ye  your  peace."  There  are  things  that 
will  not  bear  to  be  talked  about.  Your  friend 
and  his  sick  wife,  in  the  solitude  of  their  own 
room,  before  the  throne  of  the  Most  High,  will 

O      7 

adjust  themselves  as  best  they  may,  to  the  con 
ditions  of  their  life.  They  may  even  come  to 
speak  cheerfully  of  a  separation  which  they  assid 
uously  strive  to  prevent.  They  will  not  weakly 
shut  their  eyes  to  the  possible  future,  while  they 
labor  and  pray  to  shape  it  after  their  desire.  But 
where  each  other's  touch  only  soothes  and  strength 
ens,  a  stranger's  is  torture.  What  does  he  think 
of  her?  He  does  not  know  and  if  he  does,  he 


184          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

cannot  tell.  There  is  a  terrible  definiteness  in 
words.  He  sees  the  Possibility  that  stands  black 
and  frowning  in  his  path,  but  shall  he  limn  it  for 
another's  gaze  ?  The  heart  knoweth  its  own 
bitterness,  and  strangers  should  not  intermeddle. 
He  is  girding  up  his  loins  in  the  name  of  the 
Lord  to  wade  threugh  his  Slough  of  Despond. 
Do  not  insist  upon  his  measuring  it,  and  giving 
you  its  length,  breadth,  and  cubic  contents.  What 
you  can  discuss  calmly,  is  to  him  fraught  with  the 
issues  of  life.  You  are  walking  carefully,  sympa 
thetically,  it  may  be,  but  coolly,  over  their  hearts. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  tell  a  lie ;  but  also  it  is 
not  necessary  to  speak  the  truth.  It  only  needs  to 
be  cheerful.  Do  not  look  pitying.  Talk  about 
common  things  in  a  common  way,  —  the  common 
things  that  belong  to  this  life  and  those  that  touch 
on  all  life.  Walk  softly,  and  act  Christianly  in 
your  own  sphere,  but  do  not  project  yourself  into 
your  friend's  innermost  circle  where  He  alone 
should  tread  whose  form  is  like  the  Son  of  God. 

And  if  your  neighbor  has  a  baby  who  sickens 
through  these  wintry  days,  whose  little  life  quivers 
on  its  mother's  love,  do  not  jocosely  inform  the 
mother,  just  as  you  are  stepping  into  the  sleigh 
for  a  drive,  that  you  expected  every  day  last 
month  to  see  its  death  in  the  papers.  If  the  baby 
were  a  French  turnip  with  which  your  neighbor 
was  trying  an  experiment,  such  a  mode  of  speech 
might  be  tolerable.  Babies,  I  know,  are  consum- 


A   WORD  TO  THE  INCONSIDERATE.     185 

ers  and  not  producers,  and  there  are  thousands  of 
them  all  pretty  much  alike.  It  may  very  well  be 
that  society  does  not  miss  the  few  who  cannot 
weather  the  storm  ;  but  whatever  may  be  true  of 
babies  in  general,  it  is  unquestionable  that  every 
particular  infant  lies  very  near  to  its  mother's 
heart,  and  should  not  be  lightly  spoken  of. 

Sometimes  babies  die.  The  little  lambent  light 
that  played  so  softly  and  sweetly  around  the  home 
hearth  goes  out,  and  there  is  a  horror  of  great 
darkness.  Then  you  will  come  in  your  pity  and 
offer  consolation.  You  will  begin  to  explain  the 
mysteries  of  Providence,  and  "justify  the  ways  of 
God  to  man."  But  Job  did  not  open  his  mouth 
and  curse  his  day  till  his  friends  came  to  comfort 
him.  Lacon  says  it  is  often  easier  to  bear  our  mis 
fortunes  than  the  comments  of  our  friends  upon 
them.  Some  people  like  to  talk  and  be  talked  to 
in  their  sorrow.  Others  do  not.  They  prefer 
to  commune  with  their  own  hearts  and  be  still. 
Go  to  the  former  and  talk.  It  will  relieve  them. 
But  with  the  latter,  hold  ye  your  peace.  And  try 
and  have  a  little  discernment  to  find  out  which  is 
which. 

Job  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  From  being 
the  greatest  Sheikh  in  the  whole  East,  the  happy 
father  of  a  goodly  family,  he  was  suddenly  re 
duced  to  poverty  and  desolation.  The  Sabeans 
fell  upon  his  five  hundred  yoke  of  oxen  and  five 
hundred  she-asses;  the  fire  of  God  smote  his 


186          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

seven  thousand  sheep ;  the  Chaldeans  swept  off 
his  three  thousand  camels ;  a  tornado  rushed  from 
the  wilderness  and  buried  his  children  under  the 
ruins  of  their  house ;  and  a  frightful  disease  laid 
hold  upon  his  body  ;  yet  through  it  all  Job  re 
tained  his  integrity ;  and  when  his  wife,  with 
weaker  faith,  despairingly  bade  him  curse  God 
and  die,  his  meekness  and  patience  quietly  an 
swered,  "  Shall  we  receive  good  at  the  hand  of 
God,  and  shall  we  not  receive  evil  ?  " 

But  Job  had  not  seen  the  worst.  He  was  to 
prove  Lacon's  statement.  Eliphaz  the  Temanite, 
and  Bildad  the  Shuhite,  and  Zophar  the  Naama- 
thite  made  an  appointment  together  to  come  and 
mourn  with  him  and  to  comfort  him.  For  seven 
days  and  nights  none  spake  a  word  unto  him ;  for 
they  saw  that  his  grief  was  very  great.  It  is  a 
pity  that  they  could  not  have  continued  so  con 
siderate  a  course ;  but  when  Job  had  once  lifted 
the  flood-gate,  the  love  of  talking  proved  too 
strong  for  them.  None  of  them  spoke  well.  It 
would  have  been  better  for  their  reputation  if  they 
had  not  spoken  at  all ;  but  as  Eliphaz,  disregarding 
his  better  judgment,  says  apologetically  in  the  be 
ginning,  "  Who  can  withhold  himself  from  speak 
ing  ?  "  He  affirms  that  Job  had  always  been  very 
helpful  to  other  people  when  they  were  in  trouble, 
yet  as  soon  as  the  trouble  came  upon  him  he  faint 
ed  ;  but  that  God  would  surely  deliver  him ;  for 
who  ever  perished  being  innocent?  It  is  rather 


A   WORD  TO  THE  INCONSIDERATE.     187 

commonplace,  but  well-meant  and  cheery,  which 
is  more  than  can  be  said  of  Bildad's  remarks.  Bil- 
dad  seems  to  have  been  one  of  those  harsh,  dis 
agreeable  Christians,  who  pride  themselves  on 
having  no  nonsense  about  them ;  who  go  straight 
to  the  mark,  regardless  of  other's  feelings ;  who 
have  no  mercy  on  right-hand  fallings-off,  or  left- 
hand  deflections  ;  who  make  no  allowance  for  fric 
tion  in  their  mechanics,  or  lack  of  simple  appre 
hension  in  their  logic.  Eliphaz  began  quietly,  "  If 
we  assay  to  commune  with  thee,  wilt  thou  be 
grieved?"  But  Bildad,  of  coarser  grain,  walks 
stoutly  into  the  middle  of  things,  and  rudely  asks, 
"  How  long  shall  the  words  of  thy  mouth  be  like  a 
strong  wind  ?  "  Eliphaz  reasons,  "  Job  is  upright, 
therefore  he  will  be  happy."  Bildad,  less  polite, 
less  catholic,  and  not  more  logical,  says,  "Job  is 
miserable,  therefore  he  must  be  bad."  "  Where 
did  you  ever  know  a  righteous  man  cut  off?"  says 
Eliphaz.  "  If  thou  wert  pure  and  upright,  God 
would  make  the  habitation  of  thy  righteousness 
prosperous,"  is  Bildad's  astute  reasoning ;  but  Job 
still  replies  meekly,  "  I  know  it  is  so  of  a  truth, 
but  how  should  a  man  be  just  with  God  ?  "  Then 
Zophar  takes  up  the  word,  but,  instead  of  copying 
the  polite  Eliphaz,  he  is  even  more  rude  than  Bil 
dad.  "  Should  a  man  full  of  talk  be  justified  ? 
Should  their  lies  make  men  hold  their  peace  ? 
Know,  that  God  exacteth  of  thee  less  than  thine 
iniquity  deserveth,"  which  may  have  been  true, 


188          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

but  did  not  belong  to  Zophar  to  say.  Job's  anger 
is  kindled  at  length.  "  No  doubt,"  he  says,  with  a 
fine  sarcasm,  "  but  ye  are  the  people,  and  wisdom 
shall  die  with  you.  But  I  have  understanding  as 
well  as  you  ;  I  am  not  inferior  to  you.  What  ye 
know,  the  same  do  I  know  also.  Ye  are  forgers  of 
lies,  ye  are  all  physicians  of  no  value.  O  that  ye 
would  altogether  hold  your  peace !  and  it  should 
be  your  wisdom."  Never  Job  spoke  a  truer  word. 
The  whole  manner  in  which  he  turns  upon  them, 
flinging  back  their  reproaches,  probing  to  the  quick 
the  self-complacency  which  they  veil  under  a  flimsy 
pretence  of  defending  God,  avowing  a  faith  in  God 
and  a  consciousness  of  sin  infinitely  stronger  than 
they  can  have  any  conception  of,  yet  at  the  same 
time  meeting  their  charge  of  hypocrisy  with  a 
proud  assertion  of  his  integrity,  is  admirable.  It 
is  a  spirited  and  sensible  reply,  and  an  effectual. 
Bildad  and  Zophar  utter  no  more  officious  conso 
lation  and  self-satisfied  reproaches.  In  fact,  they 
are  put  on  the  defensive  by  Job's  dexterous  sortie, 
and  have  enough  to  do  without  attacking  him. 
Eliphaz,  indeed,  who  seems  to  have  been  a  rather 
weak  man  and  inclined  to  go  with  the  majority,  is 
somewhat  alarmed  at  finding  how  much  more  ani 
mated  and  severe  the  others  are  than  himself,  and 
tries  to  make  up  for  it  by  increased  severity,  not 
able  to  see  that  he  is  taking  up  a  weapon  which 
they  have  thrown  down  ;  but  Job  turns  away 
in  disgust.  "  I  have  heard  many  such  things  be- 


A  WORD  TO  THE  INCONSIDERATE.     189 

fore.  Miserable  comforters  are  ye  all.  I  also 
could  speak  as  ye  do ;  if  your  soul  were  in  my 
soul's  stead,  I  could  heap  up  words  against  you, 
and  shake  my  head  at  you.  But  /  would 
strengthen  you  with  my  mouth,  and  the  moving 
of  my  lips  should  assuage  your  grief." 

How  exquisitely  do  we  see  portrayed  in  this 
little  drama  the  misery  which  well-meaning,  but 
shallow  friends  can  impose  on  a  superior  soul. 
Looking  only  at  externals,  judging  only  from  their 
own  point  of  view,  they  attempt  to  assuage  a  grief 
of  which  they  know  nothing.  Their  scant  line 
cannot  fathom  its  depth,  their  narrow  vision  can 
not  embrace  its  breadth,  their  coarse  touch  has 
no  conception  of  its  quality  ;  they  only  see  that 
sorrow  is  there,  and  feeling  it  their  duty  to  com 
fort,  and  feeling  also  very  likely  a  sincere  desire 
to  comfort,  they  begin  to  do  something  which  they 
call  comforting,  but  which  to  their  victim  is  any 
thing  but  comfortable.  His  sensitive  nature  is 
tortured,  his  motives  misunderstood,  his  acts  mis 
construed,  till  his  earnest  prayer  is,  "  Save  me 
from  my  friends."  They  bring  forward  their 
threadbare  shreds  of  philosophy,  when  all  philoso 
phy  lies  at  his  feet.  They  proffer  homoeopathic 
doses  of  religion  when  he  keeps  his  hold  on  life 
only  by  placing  his  lips  close  to  the  life-springs  of 
salvation.  Yet  they  mean  well  and  must  not  be 
repulsed,  unless,  like  Job's  friends,  they  impose 
upon  good-nature,  and  condemn  where  they  are 
called  upon  to  condole. 


190          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

But  when  God  speaks,  the  scene  changes.  Pet 
tinesses  vanish.  That  self-justification  which  is 
sometimes  a  duty  towards  man,  is  not  required 
towards  God.  He  never  makes  mistakes.  "•  Gird 
up  now  thy  loins  like  a  man,"  says  the  divine 
voice,  and  the  earthly  soul,  bowed  down  with  a 
sudden  vision  of  sin  makes  lowly  answer,  "  I  ab 
hor  myself  and  repent  in  dust  and  ashes." 


XVI. 


DRUNKENNESS  AND   DRINKING. 


!>HATEVER  may  be  our  views  regard 
ing  the  effects  of  alcohol  upon  the 
system,  the  propriety  of  furnishing 
wine  at  -evening  parties,  the  necessity 
of  total  abstinence,  the  importance  of  signing  the 
pledge,  we  are  all  agreed  in  thinking  that  a 
drunken  military  commander  is  the  wrong  man 
in  the  wrong  place.  If  our  sons  are  about  to 
enter  the  army,  we  desire  them  to  join  a  regi 
ment  whose  colonel  is  known  to  be  a  temper 
ate  man.  If  he  has  habits  of  dissipation,  we  lose 
all  confidence  in  his  ability.  We  feel  that  our 
children  will  have  to  encounter  other  than  the 
ordinary  dangers  of  war,  —  that  their  lives  may 
be  not  sacrificed  but  wasted.  We  have  no  faith 
that  a  drunken  general  will  make  a  skilful  dispo 
sition  of  his  forces  either  for  attack  or  defence. 
Drunkenness,  we  know,  is  not  favorable  to  clear 
ness  of  vision,  fineness  of  observation,  soundness 
of  judgment,  or  rapidity  of  mental  action,  and  all 


192          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

these  are  eminently  needed  on  a  field  of  battle,  or 
on  one  which  may  become  such,  without,  or  in 
spite  of,  these  qualities.  But  the  bane  of  our 
army,  and  of  our  army  material,  seems  to  have 
been,  and  I  fear  I  may  say,  to  be,  drunkenness. 
A  regiment  leaves  for  Washington,  folly  armed 
and  equipped,  and  its  colonel  is  known  as  a  drunk 
ard, —  not,  indeed,  a  rum  and  gutter  drunkard, 
but  a  wine  and  club-room  one,  which,  however 
superior  that  may  be  socially,  is,  for  fighting  pur 
poses,  the  same  thing.  If  a  man  is  drunk,  it 
matters  little  whether  he  is  drunk  at  three  cents 
a  glass,  or  eight  dollars  a  bottle,  —  whether  he 
is  lifted  into  his  carriage  by  his  servants,  or 
dragged  to  the  watch-house  by  a  police  officer. 
We  hear  of  a  commander  of  a  gunboat,  an  ex 
cellent  officer,  highly  recommended,  who  has, 
indeed,  but  one  fault,  —  drunkenness ;  but  that  is 
the  fruitful  source  of  disgrace  and  disaster.  A 
lieutenant  has  been  educated  in  military  schools, 
has  watched  the  evolutions  of  foreign  armies,  is  a 
fine,  noble,  patriotic,  whole-souled  fellow,  but  he 
cannot  be  relied  on,  he  cannot  be  placed  in  the  sit 
uation  which  wants  just  such  a  man  as  he,  because 
he  will  occasionally  be  drunk.  The  streets  of 
Washington,  and  the  good  name  of  the  country, 
have  been  disgraced  by  drunken  soldiers.  Officers 
toss  off  champagne  at  the  hotels,  and  privates  guzzle 
rum  in  the  saloons.  Battles  are  lost,  fortifications 
surrendered,  and  brave  men  slain. 


DRUNKENNESS  AND  DRINKING.       193 

That  rum  is  not  considered  the  natural  ally  of 
success,  is  indicated  by  the  orders  to  close  .the 
dram-shops  to  which  our  army  had  access.  Re 
port  states  that  there  has  since  been  a  great  im- 

x  O 

provement  in  this  respect. 

New  England  is  not  under  martial  law.  Mas 
sachusetts  is  not  under  martial  law.  Shall  we 
then  be  drunk  or  sober  ?  It  is  for  ourselves  to 
answer. 

We  demand,  and  we  have  a  right  to  demand, 
that  our  army  shall  be  sober.  We  have  a  right  to 
demand  that  they,  to  whom  the  defence  of  the 
country  is  intrusted,  shall  not  put  themselves  in  a 
condition  which,  for  a  time,  impairs,  if  it  does  not 
destroy  their  faculties.  They  may  not  have  much 
skill,  or  strength,  or  courage,  but  all  that  they 
have  belongs  to  the  cause  under  whose  banner 
they  have  voluntarily  ranged  themselves ;  and 
when  they  weaken  their  power,  they  rob  their 
country.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  they  have 
the  same  right  to  demand  that  we  shall  be  sober. 
The  army  does  not  monopolize  the  protection  of 
the  country.  It  is  not  one  man's  duty  to  enlist  to 
serve  his  country,  and  another  man's  privilege  to 
stop  at  home  and  serve  himself.  The  present  re 
sponsibility  of  every  American  citizen  is  one  and 
the  same.  The  first  earthly  work  of  every  Amer 
ican  citizen  is  one  and  the  same,  —  to  see  that  the 
Republic  receive  no  harm.  You  may  do  it  by 
shouldering  a  musket  and  shooting  the  rebels.  A 


194          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

second  may  do  it  by  making  a  coat  that  is  to  warm 
you ;  a  third,  by  managing  the  bank  that  is  to  pay 
you ;  a  fourth,  by  writing  the  paper  that  is  to  sup 
port  you ;  a  fifth,  by  caring  for  the  family  that  you 
have  left.  But  all  should  work  to  the  same  end. 
All  have  the  same  account  to  render. 

If,  then,  it  is  the  duty  of  the  soldier  on  the  bat 
tle-field,  for  country's  sake,  to  be  sober,  it  is  just 
as  much,  and  just  the  same,  the  duty  of  the  fanner 
in  the  corn-field,  the  merchant  in  the  counting- 
room,  the  guest  at  the  dinner-table.  It  amounts 
to  nothing  to  say  that  the  soldier's  post  is  one  of 
more  importance  and  greater  responsibility.  God 
alone  knows  the  extent  of  responsibility.  Every 
man  is  responsible  for  the  whole  of  himself,  —  no 
less,  no  more.  Apparent  influence  is  often  an  en 
tirely  different  thing  from  real  influence.  What 
seems  to  be  a  little,  isolated,  wrong  deed,  may 
have  an  endless  train  of  stupendous,  evil  results. 
What  seems  to  be  an  insignificant  virtue  may  bear 
fruit  of  splendid  benefit.  It  may  seem  that  the 
general  commanding  has  more  influence  than  he 
who  stays  at  home,  but  God  alone  knows  whether 
he  has  or  not.  The  keeper  at  home,  by  his  words 
or  his  life,  may  be  influencing  a  little  boy  who, 
under  his  influence,  shall  grow  up  into  a  greater 
man  than  our  greatest  general.  It  is  not  for  any 
one  to  say  to  any  other,  "  Your  responsibility*  is 
great,  and  you  must  be  virtuous  and  vigilant. 
My  responsibility  is  small,  and  I  may  be  lax  and 
self-indulgent." 


DRUNKENNESS  AND  DRINKING.       195 

All  men  who  are  not  traitors,  or  cowardly,  igno- 
rantly,  and  disgracefully  indifferent,  are  either  in 
the  army  or  in  the  Home  Guard,  and  all  are  alike 
under  bonds  to  be  sober,  to  be  vigilant,  to  be  brave, 
to  be  patriotic. 

But  while  the  soldier  on  the  Potomac  is  under 
no  stronger  bonds  to  be  temperate  than  the  citizen 
in  Boston,  he  is  under  far  stronger  temptation  to  be 
intemperate.  Away  from  home,  deprived  of  fe 
male  society,  leading  an  adventurous  and  roving 
life,  exposed  to  burning  sun  and  drenching  rain, 
his  former  habits  both  of  amusement  and  occu 
pation  broken  up,  hard  labor  alternating  with  utter 
idleness,  with  but  a  small  variety  of  food  and  a 
slender  stock  of  reading  matter,  the  temptation  to 
one  whose  appetite  for  strong  drink  has  ever  been 
awakened,  must  be  almost  overpowering.  It  is 
not  surprising  that  those  who  have  drank  a  little 
at  home  should  drink  to  excess  in  the  camp.  It  is 
not  incredible  that  those  who  were  abstinent  at 
home  should  be  intemperate  in  the  camp.  If  sore 
temptation  is  ever  any  excuse  for  any  sin,  surely 
the  soldiers  may  plead  it  for  their  drunkenness. 
To  keep  them  in  the  right  path,  they  need  to  be 
surrounded  by  every  inducement,  and  one  of  the 
strongest  would  be  the  assurance  that  the  soldiers 
at  home  are  scrupulously  keeping  themselves  pure 
from  this  thing. 

Is  it  not,  therefore,  the  duty  of  every  man  and 
woman  who  desires  that  the  soldier  should  be  so- 


196          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

ber,  to  abstain  himself  and  herself  from  every 
form  of  intoxicating  liquor  ?  Is  it  not  eminently 
selfish  and  unjust  to  forbid  the  wet,  tired,  foot 
sore  soldier  a  glass  of  whiskey,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  sip  Roman  punch  at  our  own  side 
boards  ?  If  we,  with  all  the  luxuries  of  home, 
and  all  the  stimulants  of  society,  cannot  deny 
ourselves  the  accustomed  bottle  of  port  or  sherry 
after  dinner,  with  what  face  can  we  ask  a  man 
who  has  been  drilling  five  hours,  and  who  has 
no  home  to  go  to  but  his  tent,  to  deny  himself 
the  warm  and  cheering  potency  of  a  glass  of  grog  ? 
I  am  saying  nothing  now  of  the  moral  right  or 
wrong  of  abstinence,  in  the  nature  of  things.  I 
speak  not  of  intrinsic  but  of  relative  right ;  not  of 
duty  to  God,  but  duty  to  country.  I  appeal  to 
patriotism  everywhere  to  strengthen  weak  hands, 
and  confirm  feeble  knees;  to  show  to  the  soldier 
that  we  do  not  require  of  him  a  virtue  which  we 
refuse  to  practise  ourselves.  It  is  impertinent  to 
say  that,  though  we  drink  wine,  we  do  not  "  get 
drunk."  For  military  authorities,  who  ought  to 
know  what  most  conduces  to  men's  efficiency,  make 
no  such  distinction.  It  is  of  the  utmost  importance 
that  men  be  in  the  best  condition,  and  general  or 
ders  do  not  say  that  men  may  get  whiskey,  but 
must  not  get  drunk.  They  shut  up  the  dram 
shops.  While  the  emergency  lasts,  let  us  do 
the  same.  When  the  war  is  over,  there  will 
be  plenty  of  time  to  discuss  the  innocence  and 


DRUNKENNESS  AND  DRINKING.       197 

the  benefit  of  moderate  drinking ;  but  while  our 
brothers  are  fighting  forty-eight  hours  on  a  mouth 
ful  of  vinegar,  let  us  not  be  taking  advantage  of 
a  mooted  point  to  indulge  our  luxurious  tastes. 
While  our  men  are  splitting  heads,  let  us  not  be 
splitting  hairs.  The  wide  sweep  that  martial  law 
makes  in  Virginia,  let  moral  law  make  in  Massa 
chusetts. 

A  few  months  ago  a  party  of  people,  dressed  in 
a  good  deal  of  not  very  brief  authority,  went 
down  to  one  of  those  little  villages  in  which  that 
which  is  spoken  in  the  ear,  —  and  sometimes  a 
good  deal  more,  —  is  proclaimed  upon  the  house 
tops.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  first  time  within  the 
memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  that  people  of  so 
great  distinction  had  set  foot  in  that  quiet  village, 
and  of  course  all  the  available  small  boys,  and 
some  of  the  large  ones,  trotted  down  to  the  rail 
road  station  to  catch  such  a  glimpse  of  majesty  as 
might  be  afforded  between  car  and  carriage ;  and 
if  sundry  vagrant  lads  did  hang  upon  the  outskirts 
of  the  party  through  the  day,  is  it  a  thing  entirely 
unheard  of  in  the  annals  of  boys?  "And,"  said 
one  of  them,  retailing  his  adventures  to  a  knot  of 
greedy-eared  listeners,  "when  dinner-time  come, 
they  sot  down  on  the  grass,  and  had  their  cham 
pagne  and  their  goodies,  and  by  golly !  wan't  it 
tall  ?  "  So  the  champagne  sparkled  from  one  end 
of  the  village  to  the  other. 

Now  in  that  village  there  are   mothers   whose 


198          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

sons,  —  there  are  wives  whose  husbands,  —  there 
are  children  whose  fathers,  —  have  gone  out  to 
breast  bayonet  and  bullet,  and  who  have  left  at 
home  hearts  that  ache  sore  at  parting,  sorer  still 
because  the  dear  faces  may  be  seen  no  more,  but 
sorest  of  all  through  fear  of  the  work  that  vice 
and  crime  may  do  on  the  characters  of  their  loved 
ones.  They  give  them  up  cheerfully  to  death  at 
their  country's  call,  but  they  have  no  fortitude  to 
face  their  degradation.  Their  daily  and  constant 
prayer  is,  not  so  much  that  they  may  come  out  of 
battle  unharmed,  as  that  they  may  come  out  of 
the  furnace  of  temptation  with  no  smell  of  fire 
upon  their  garments.  They  are  a  simple  folk. 
They  know  little  of  the  usages  of  fashionable  so 
ciety,  but  they  know  their  hearts  sink  within  them 
when  they  hear  that  the  habits  into  which  they 
most  dread  that  their  friends  shall  fall,  the  habits 
in  which  they  read  the  utter  extinction  of  all  their 
hopes  and  all  their  joy,  receive  the  sanction  of 
learning,  genius  and  influence.  They  counsel 
with  an  ill-repressed  agony  of  anxiety,  and  affec 
tionate  and  generous,  yet  wayward  and  thought 
less  boys,  point  to  the  example  of  the  first  men 
in  the  State,  —  and  what  can  the  poor  mothers 
say? 

Not  as  a  religionist  or  a  reformer,  but  in  the 
name  of  loyalty  and  patriotism,  in  the  name  of 
pity  and  compassion  for  the  erring,  in  the  name  of 
succor  for  the  weak,  and  comfort  for  the  sorrowful, 


DRUNKENNESS  AND  DRINKING.       199 

in  the  name  of  the  mothers  who  have  given  up 
their  sons,  in  the  name  of  the  young  men  whose 
future  will  be  shaped  in  the  encampment,  in  the 
name  of  Him  whose  loving-kindness  forbade  to 
offend  the  least  of  His  little  ones,  I  appeal  to  you 
who  sit  in  high  places,  —  to  all  whom  wealth,  or 
birth,  or  learning,  or  genius,  has  placed  in  com 
manding  positions,  —  to  all  who  love  your  country, 
and  would  count  it  joy  to  press  upon  your  brows 
the  crown  of  sacrifice,  —  to  see  to  it  that  no 
liberty  of  yours  prove  a  stumbling-block  to  your 
weak  brother  for  whom  Christ  died ! 


XVII. 


LANGUAGE 


of  the  most  satisfactory  books  to 
the  student  and  lover  of  his  own  lan 
guage  is  Max  Miiller's  "  Lectures  on 
the  Science  of  Language."  It  takes 
us  where  we  are,  and  carries  us  back  to  the. creation 
of  the  world,  and  that  is  as  far  as  any  reason 
able  person  cares  to  go.  Many  books  that  treat 
of  language  are  fragmentary.  They  tell  twenty 
interesting  things,  but  they  do  not  give  a  thread 
to  string  them  on,  or  if  they  do,  they  leave  it  loose 
at  one  end.  The  authors  seem  to  be  studying 
their  subject,  and  the  reader  studies  with  them. 
They  are  honest  and  enthusiastic.  They  givo 
valuable  hints,  and  curious  information  ;  but  they 
do  not  command.  One  does  not  feel  that  they 
are  masters  of  the  situation.  They  are  novices, 
neophytes,  just  like  himself,  —  a  little  farther  ad 
vanced,  but  by  no  means  admitted  to  full  priestly 
orders.  .This,  however,  is  no  neophyte.  He  takes 
up  the  subject  like  a  master.  He  handles  it  with 


LANGUAGE.  201 

confidence,  grace,  and  ability.  He  is  so  much  at 
his  ease  that  he  has  the  air  of  knowing  all  about 
it,  even  when  he  tells  you  frankly  that  he  does  not 
know.  His  enthusiasm  is  no  surface  attachment, 
but  based  on  intimate  knowledge  of  character,  and 
he  pursues  his  subject  with  a  lover's  persistency. 
He  has  traced  language  through  all  its  windings 
and  turnings,  up,  up,  up,  to  where  it  springs,  a 
tiny  fountain,  from  the  unfathomed,  mysterious 
depths  of  the  human  soul.  And  because  he  knows 
the  way,  we  follow  his  lead  implicitly  and  delight 
edly  through  devious  paths,  thridding  jungles, 
scaling  mountains,  fording  rivers,  and,  it  must  be 
confessed,  sometimes  leaping  abysms,  because 
there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  leap  or  lose  the 
trail.  But  it  is  a  royal  journey,  —  a  triumphal 
march.  New  prospects  stretch  continually  be 
fore  you,  —  grand  and  solemn,  dainty  and  pic 
turesque,  stately  pageants  of  that  dim  old  world 
whose  echoes  tremble,  whose  shadows  glide  along 
the  valleys  of  the  new ;  and  all  the  while,  through 
the  opening  vistas,  under  the  arching  trees,  behind 
the  leafy  screens,  you  catch  glimpses  of  the  foun 
tain  Arethusa  which  you  pursue,  and  you  know 
that  for  her  there  is  no  escape.  No  friendly  Earth, 
divinely  touched,  shall  open  her  bosom  to  the  pant 
ing  fugitive.  You  shall  snatch  her  well-guarded 
secret  where  first  she  leaps  from  hidden  caverns 
fast  by  the  oracles  of  God. 

There  are  people  who  regard  the  subject  as  a 

9* 


202          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

dry  one,  but  it  is  of  all  subjects  the  one  so  rich, 
and  juicy,  and  fruitful,  that  no  awkwardness  of 
treatment  can  entirely  deprive  it  of  its  charm. 
The  merest  tyro  may  set  up  to  write  a  book 
about  it,  and  all  his  ignorance  and  pretension 
cannot  quite  obscure  the  pure  gold  that  glows  in 
his  clownish  hand.  The  sweet  soul  of  Cinderella 
shines  through  all  the  soot  and  ashes  of  her  ser 
vitude,  and  by  her  gleam  the  goddess  stands  con 
fessed.  How  much  more  then  shall  she  vindi 
cate  her  divine  descent  when  she  sits  in  state, 
apparelled  as  becomes  a  daughter  of  the  gods  ! 

The  science  of  language  is  dry,  only  because  we 
know  so  little  about  it.  Just  as  far  as  we  dissi 
pate  the  fogs  of  ignorance,  the  landscape  h'es  be 
fore  us,  beautiful  as  the  vale  of  Tempe.  We 
bandy  words,  tossing  them  hither  and  thither, 
carelessly.  They  are  simply  our  current  coin. 
They  help  us  to  traffic  in  bread  and  cheese,  love 
and  learning,  pity  and  hatred,  devotion  and  re 
venge  ;  but  they  are  no  more  to  us  than  stones. 
"  Only  words,"  we  say,  and  give  them  no  further 
thought.  Only  words  !  The  stone  is  a  casket ! 
To  him  who  knows  the  hidden  spring,  new  worlds 
reveal  themselves.  The  cold,  dead  word,  holds 
in  its  heart  the  hopes  and  histories  of  generations. 
It  is  sweet  with  the  breath  of  spices,  and  the  songs 
of  nightingales.  It  dazzles  with  the  glare  of  eter 
nal  snow.  It  thrills  with  the  love  of  Arab  girls. 
It  shudders  with  the  stain  of  bloody  rites.  The 


LANGUAGE.  203 

echoes  of  martyr-prayers  linger  still  among  its 
cadences,  and  its  secret  depths  flash  out  once  more 
the  gleam  of  pirates'  steel.  Following  the  certain 
token  of  this  star  in  the  East,  we  wander  back 
along  the  way  our  fathers  trod,  —  back  over 
the  ocean,  to  that  pale,  that  white-faced  shore, 
that  once  spurned  the  fathers  to  its  own  dismay, 
and  later  spurned  their  sons  with  a  bitterness  that 
will  not  soon  be  forgotten,  —  back  over  the  Ger 
man  Ocean  that  our  fair-haired  ancestors  dared  in 
their  light  sea-skiffs,  —  farther  still,  to  the 

"  Shining  hills, 

The  steep,  wide  promontories,  where 
They  shook  their  syrcas, 
The  garments  of  battle, 
And  thanked  God 
That  to  them  the  wave-journey 
Had  been  so  easy,"  — 

farther  still,  over  the  Austrian  mountains,  up  the 
steppes  of  Russia,  down  through  the  Golden  Horn, 
—  home  again  at  last  in  the  warm  old  Asian 
world,  the  fruitful  garden  of  the  earth,  the  tawny- 
browed,  deep-bosomed  mother  of  us  all.  And 
ever  along  the  way  there  is  a  resurrection.  Un 
der  the  new  forms  the  old  spring  into  a  second 
life.  At  the  touch  of  a  word,  the  graves  give  up 
their  dead,  busy  cities  fade  into  silence,  and  the 
deserts  are  repeopled.  Little  children,  whose 
gray  hairs  have  been  entombed  for  centuries,  are 
playing  once  more  among  the  goats ;  merchant 
princes  traffic  in  gold  and  purple  where  fishermen 


204         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

spread  their  nets,  and  a  thousand  sinewy  hands 
are  fashioning  the  Sphinx's  granite  heart.  There 
is  no  speech  nor  language,  but  with  the  gleam  of  a 
magic  word  the  stark  statues  ring  out  their  Mem- 
non-music  down  the  years,  even  to  these  ends  of 
the  earth.  Who  shall  say  that  the  age  of  Fairies 
and  Genii  is  past,  when  on  such  ethereal  wings  we 
can  behold  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  and  the 
glory  of  them. 

It  is  only  a  chart  of  this  wonderful  journey  that 
Miiller  gives  us,  but  even  its  points  are  points  of 
bewildering  beauty.  He  startles  us,  in  the  first 
place,  with  the  assertion  that  language  is  one 
of  the  physical  sciences,  as  truly  as  botany  or 
geology;  in  proof  of  which  he  distinguishes  so 
clearly  between  the  growth  of  language  and  the 
history  of  language,  he  traces  back  the  former  to 
its  germ  in  the  human  breast  so  logically,  he 
points  out  so  unmistakably  the  fact  which  com 
mends  itself  at  once  to  our  consciousness,  that  it  is 
not  in  the  power  of  men  to  produce  or  prevent  the 
Ceaseless  change  in  language,  —  that  they  can  no 
more  control  the  laws  of  speech  than  the  circula 
tion  of  blood,  nor  invent  new  words  at  pleasure 
than  add  a  cubit  to  their  stature,  —  that  he  com 
pels  assent.  The  underlying  principle  which 
shapes  his  researches,  the  key  wherewith  he  un 
locks  these  secret  cells,  is  that  everything  in  lan 
guage  had  originally  a  meaning.  By  distinguishing 
and  describing  the  two  processes  which  comprise 


LANGUAGE.  205 

the  growth  of  language,  viz.  Phonetic  Decay,  — 
as  if,  for  instance,  "Yes,  madam,"  should  fade  into 
"Yes,  ma'am,"  and  that  into  "Yes'm," — and 
Dialectical  Regeneration,  or  the  continued  replen 
ishing  of  a  language  from  its  various  dialects,  he 
illustrates  his  principle  with  singular  success,  fill 
ing  up  form  with  substance,  or  rather  bringing  to 
light  the  substance  which  has  long  lain  lost  amid 
the  shadows  of  the  form.  Thus  he  shows  the 
origin  and  meaning  of  the  d  in  loved,  making  the 
tragic  change  from  love  living  to  love  dead.  He 
combats  the  prevalent  idea  that  dialects  are  cor 
ruptions  of  a  pure,  classical  language,  and  insists 
that  they  are  rather  its  feeders.  He  teaches  that 
many  dialects  originally  led  a  life  of  republican 
equality,  but  those  spoken  in  isolated  places  having 
no  standard,  continually  changed,  an  entire  change 
taking  place  sometimes  in  so  short  a  period  as  the 
lifetime  of  a  single  generation,  while  those  that 
were  more  central  and  consolidated  around  a  lit 
erature  created  by  songs,  festivals,  laws,  and  occa 
sional  intercourse,  gradually  assumed  supremacy.* 
If  by  any  means  a  literature  came  to  be  written, 
the  dialect  in  which  it  was  written  at  once  swal 
lowed  up  the  rest.  But  its  momentary  greatness 
was  atoned  for  by  immediate  death.  As  soon  as  a 
tongue  becomes  fixed,  classical,  it  crystallizes.  It 
is  hard,  cold,  —  a  dead  language,  beautiful  but  un- 
breathing.  All  this,  however,  is  quite  beyond  the 
control  of  man.  The  growth,  though  not  like  that 


206          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

of  a  tree  from  within,  is  like  that  of  the  crust  of 
the  earth,  by  combinations  of  given  elements  ac 
cording  to  established,  though  unknown  laws. 
The  Christian  tone  of  the  book  is  vigorous  and 

o 

refreshing.  Scientific  men  are  very  apt  to  patron 
ize  the  Bible.  Miiller  does  not.  He  never  sus 
pects  that  it  must  be  bolstered  up  by  any  clumsy 
contrivances.  He  has  so  much  faith  in  it  that  he 
lets  it  stand  on  its  own  ground  and  pushes  his  re 
searches  without  the  slightest  misgiving  of  collision. 
He  dates  the  real  beginning  of  the  science  from 
the  first  day  of  Pentecost.  Christ  had  to  come  to 
teach  that  mankind  were  of  one  blood  before  the 
science  of  mankind  and  the  language  of  mankind 
could  spring  into  life.  The  common  origin  of 
mankind  and  their  susceptibility  of  the  highest 
culture  became  problems  of  scientific,  because  of 
more  than  scientific  interest.  He  affirms  that  the 
apostles  were  the  pioneers  of  the  science,  and  their 
true  successors,  the  missionaries,  the  most  useful 
allies  of  the  philologer.  The  translation  of  the 
*Bible  and  the  Lord's  Prayer  into  eveiy  dialect  of 
the  world  form  his  most  valuable  materials.  There 
is  a  world  of  good,  sturdy,  but  not  very  common 
sense  in  his  way  of  preventing  "  not  only  those 
who  are  forever  attacking  the  Bible  with  arrows 
that  cannot  reach  it,  but  likewise  those  who  defend 
it  with  weapons  they  know  not  how  to  wield,  from 
disturbing  in  any  way  the  quiet  progress  of  the 
science  of  language."  The  defence  of  incompe- 


LANGUAGE.  207 

tent  friends  is  much  more  disastrous  than  the  at 
tack  of  able  enemies. 

Without  for  a  moment  granting  that  the  sub 
ject  is  dull,  we  may  admit  that  the  book  is  all  the 
more  interesting  for  being  enlivened  by  humor  and 
illustrated  by  anecdote.  It  is  respectful  to  its  pre 
decessors,  —  though  it  cannot  help  a  sly  laugh 
now  and  then,  which  does  no  harm,  so  long  as  it 
is  good-humored,  —  attractive  in  style,  and  sym 
metrical  in  construction. 


XVIII. 

CHRIST    IN    CAROLINA. 


VEN  on  a  very  serious  subject,  one 
can  hardly  help  being  amused  at  the 
remarkable  logic  of  Mr.  Jefferson 
Davis  in  his  message  to  that  assembly 
which  call  itself  the  Confederate  Congress.  The 
loving-kindness  and  tender  mercy  of  the  slave 
owner  bubbles  over  in  speaking  of  "  the  unfortu 
nate  negroes  "  upon  whose  sufferings  he  dwells, 
and  whose  grievances  he  recounts  with  a  pity 
beautiful  to  behold  ;  showing  the  superior  benefit 
to  the  negroes  of  slavery  over  freedom  by  adding : 
"  By  the  Northern  man,  on  whose  deep-rooted 
prejudices  no  kindly  restraining  influence  is  exer 
cised,  they  are  treated  with  aversion  and  neglect," 
and  in  the  very  next  paragraph  affirming  that 
"  full  confirmation  is  afforded  by  statements  pub 
lished  in  the  Northern  journals  by  humane  persons 
engaged  in  making  appeals  to  the  charitable  for 
aid  in  preventing  the  ravages  of  disease,  exposure 
and  starvation  among  the  negro  women  and  chil- 


CHRIST  IN  CAROLINA.  209 

dren  who  are  crowded  into  encampments."  That 
is,  he  knows  the  negroes  are  neglected  because 
of  the  efforts  which  are  making  to  take  care  of 
them  ! 

But  Mr.  Jefferson  Davis's  affirmation  that  the 
negroes  are  very  badly  off  for  the  comforts  and 
even  the  necessaries  of  life,  ought  not  to  blind 
our  eyes  to  the  other  fact,  that  they  are  badly 
off.  Over  against  his  assertion,  we  ought  to  set 
the  antecedent  facts  in  our  possession  wThich 
would  lead  us  to  infer  that  they  must  suffer,  and 
the  testimony  which  comes  from  various  sources 
that  they  do  suffer.  If  every  negro  brought 
within  our  lines  were  a  swift  and  cunning  work 
man,  abundantly  able  in  the  piping  times  of  peace 
to  take  care  of  himself  and  his  family,  the  sud 
denness  of  the  change  in  his  situation,  the  entire 
absence  of  any  preparation  for  it,  either  on  his 
part  or  our  own,  would  render  it  wellnigh  im 
possible  for  him  to  do  so.  Added  to  the  floating, 
fragmentary  reports,  and  the  numerous  miscella 
neous  appeals  for  aid,  we  have  the  official  action 
of  General  Grant  in  sending  chaplains  from  his 
army  to  acquaint  Northern  people  with  the  sore 
destitution  and  need  of  the  freedmen,  suffering 

7  Q 

intensely,  as  they  affirm,  from  nakedness  and  want 
of  shelter. 

All  Christians  have  desired  the  extinction  of 
slavery,  but  slaves  are  extinguished  only  by  turn 
ing  them  into  men,  and  women,  and  children, 

N 


210          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES, 

who  are  at  once  thrown  upon  our  hands.  As 
slaves,  we  could  do  nothing  for  them,  except  in 
directly.  As  freedmen,  they  become  at  once 
our  solemn  trust  from  God.  There  is  not  a 
man  or  woman  of  this  country,  who  is  not  per 
sonally  responsible  for  the  comfort  and  the  edu 
cation  of  these  people.  We  have  prayed  that 
God  would  undo  the  heavy  burdens,  and  let  the 
oppressed  go  free.  Now  he  has  undone  them. 
Are  we  ready  to  approve  ourselves  sincere  by 
taking  the  next  step  ?  Are  we  ready  for  the  con 
sequences  of  our  prayers  ?  Did  we  pray  with  the 
understanding  that  God  should  not  hear,  or  that 
if  he  did,  it  was  no  concern  of  ours  ?  God  hav 
ing,  according  to  our  request,  set  the  slave  free, 
shall  we  not  see  to  it  that  his  freedom  becomes  a 
blessing  to  him  ?  Under  slavery,  the  slaves  were 
provided  for  after  a  fashion  ;  under  freedom,  shall 
they  be  left  to  perish  ?  We  have  no  excuse  of 
inability.  There  are  very  few  who  are  not  able 
to  help  if  they  wish  to  help.  What  is  wanted 
is  common  things,  —  warm  clothing  for  winter, 
implements  of  industry  for  self-help  and  self- 
culture,  books  for  instruction,  and  whatever  a 
slave  needs  on  his  journey  to  independent,  in 
telligent  manhood.  But  the  immediate  and 
urgent  need  seems  to  be  clothing.  Now  I  have 
no  doubt  that  there  is  clothing  enough  in  the 
North,  not  necessary  either  to  comfort  or  re 
spectability,  to  clothe  every  freedman  and  freed- 


CHRIST  IN  CAROLINA.  211 

woman  through  the  winter.  With  a  nation  as 
rich  as  ours,  there  is  not  the  smallest  need  that 
the  blacks  should  famish  or  shiver.  If  they  do, 
it  is  owing,  not  to  our  poverty,  but  to  our  pa 
ganism.  If  the  garrets  of  our  farm-houses,  if 
the  closets  and  chests  and  wardrobes  of  our  well- 
to-do  mechanics,  to  say  nothing  of  our  rich  men, 
could  only  be  made  to  give  up  the  superfluities 
which  are  in  them,  —  the  flannels,  and  the  cot 
tons,  and  the  cotton-flannels,  the  woollen  stock 
ings,  the  old  coats,  and  waistcoats,  and  trousers, 
and  gowns,  and  sacks,  and  shawls,  that  will  not, 
or  need  not,  be  worn,  that  are  lying  in  wait 
to  be  cut  over  for  future  fashions,  or  merely 
contingent  wants,  —  the  blankets,  the  quilts,  the 
full-puffed  bed-spreads,  that  have  been  accumu 
lated  by  a  certain  New  England  instinct,  but 
serve  the  honest  pride  of  the  good  housewife 
rather  than  the  necessities  of  her  family,  —  the 
wadded  and  quilted  petticoats  whose  substance 
has  outlived  their  fashion,  and  whose  fate  will 
ultimately  be  to  go  into  the  depths  of  chest  and 
chair-covers,  —  if  all  these  and  a  great  multitude 
of  similar  articles  could  be  got  at,  not  a  negro 
need  suffer.  These  ought  to  be  got  at.  Things 
ordinarily  commendable  are  not  commendable 
now.  The  hoards  of  warm,  substantial  clothing 
that  have  come  down  to  us  from  those  terrible 
times  when  a  girl  was  not  considered  fit  to  be 
married  till  she  had  knit  herself  a  pillow-case- 


212         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

fill  of  stockings,  and  woven  herself  a  chestful  of 
fine-twined  linen  which  the  longest  life  could  not 
wear  out,  are  valuable  as  heirlooms,  and  not  to 
be  triflingly  disposed  of.  But  God  has  made  this 
generation  the  depositary  of  liberty  which  is  the 
heirloom  of  the  world.  To  our  age  is  commit 
ted  the  redemption  of  a  race,  and  in  that  race 
all  the  down-trodden  races.  Surely  all  private 
heirlooms  may  well  be  subordinated  to  this.  In 
no  way  can  the  legacies  of  the  past  be  more 
sacredly  treasured  than  by  devoting  them  to  this 
sacred  cause.  Turn  the  pillow-case  upside  down, 
and  shake  it.  Descend  into  the  old  chests  and 
bring  up  the  pepper-and-camphor-strewed  wealth. 
One  blanket  made  into  clothing  may  keep  several 
persons  warm. 

Things  more  dear  than  these,  I  know  have  been 
gladly  given.  Little  garments  that  speak  of  a 
lost  hope,  as  well  as  of  tender  memories,  little 
hoods  that  have  sheltered  tossing  curls,  little  frocks 
that  have  covered  sweet  forms  lying  under  the 
snow  now  these  many  winters,  have  been  drawn 
forth  from  the  drawers  which  they  consecrated, 
and  sent  down  with  prayer  and  love  for  little  black 
babies  that  had  no  heritage  but  love.  Was  that 
profanation  ?  Did  they  profane  their  purest  vest 
ments  who  cast  them  in  the  way  for  the  Blessed 
Feet  to  tread  ?  If  the  infant  Christ  were  cradled 
now  in  a  manger,  on  one  of  the  Southern  planta 
tions,  would  it  be  profanation  to  wrap  his  tiny  form 


CHRIST  IN  CAROLINA.  213 

in  the  little  frocks  that  once  had  wrapped  your 
child?  But  inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto 
one  of  the  least  of  these,  my  brethren,  ye  have 
done  it  unto  me. 

Learn  a  lesson  from  that  noble  father  of  a  noble 
son,  whom  the  powers  of  Evil  "  buried  with  his  nig 
gers"  for  the  same  purpose  that,  eighteen  hundred 
years  ago,  they  crucified  his  Master  between  two 
thieves.  When  a  mistaken  respect  would  have 
brought  his  body  northward  for  sepulture  ^jmong 
his  kindred,  the  father  proved  himself  worthy  of 
his  son,  and  interposed.  No  pomp  of  funeral  rites, 
no  common  burial-place,  for  him.  Such  deeds  are 
consecration.  The  brave  beauty,  the  vigorous 
youth,  the  fair  name,  which  he  devoted  to  his 
grateful  country,  and  to  the  suffering  race,  can 
not  be  desecrated ;  least  of  all  by  those  he  died  to 
save,  and  who  would  have  died  for  him.  He  lies 
where  he  fell,  with  his  Guard  of  Honor  around 
him,  and  henceforth  it  is  holy  ground.  So  Massa 
chusetts  gives  to  South  Carolina  best  gifts,  and  by 
this  token  the  land  shall  be  redeemed.  He  shall 
rise  again  with  his  warriors,  and  if  the  word  of 
God  fail  not,  the  King  shall  say  unto  him,  "  Come, 
ye  blessed  of  my  Father,  inherit  the  kingdom  pre 
pared  for  you  from  the  foundation  of  the  world. 
For  I  was  in  prison  and  ye  came  unto  me." 

There  is  also  a  foolish  feeling  of  pride  against 
making  contributions.  People  say  they  have 


214          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

nothing  good  enough  to  send.  They  think  their 
old  clothes  are  too  much  worn  and  defaced  to  be 
given  away.  They  do  not  seem  quite  to  divot 
themselves  of  the  idea  that  the  especial  owner 
ship  of  their  mended  clothes  is  going  to  be  obvi 
ous  all  the  way  down  to  Vicksburg  and  the  Sea 
Islands.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  suppose  Mr.  Jones's 
connection  with  his  coat,  and  Mrs.  Jones's  with 
her  gown,  is  generally  sundered  the  moment  it  is 
beyond  their  own  door ;  and  past  the  first  stage, 
even  the  knowledge  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jones  them 
selves  vanishes  away.  But  suppose  not,  what 
harm  ?  If  a  garment  is  worth  patching,  the  patch 
is  not  a  thing  to  be  ashamed  of;  anoj  I  suppose 
anything  that  can  be  mended  into  decency  and  a 
tolerable  degree  of  durability,  is  worth  sending. 
You  can  easily  ask  yourself  whether,  if  you  wi-iv 
daily  shivering  with  cold,  you  would  consider  it 
worth  sending  to  you,  and  if  you  then  doubt 
whether  it  will  pay  for  transportation,  you  can 
mend  it  and  wear  it  yourself,  and  send  your 
strong  new  garments  to  the  freed  people  !  Ap 
peals,  to  be  sure,  are  made  chiefly  for  second-hand 
clothing,  but  I  dare  say  first-hand  would  not  be 
refused.  It  might  cost  a  sacrifice ;  but  not  one 
worthy  to  be  compared  with  His,  who  for  us  left 
the  glory  which  he  had  with  the  Father  before 
the  world  was,  and  came  down  to  a  manger  and 
a  cross. 

But  after  all,   it  is  neither  pride  nor  poverty 


CHRIST  IN  CAROLINA.  215 

which  is  the  chief  obstacle,  but  a  certain  indiffer 
ence  ;  the  absence  of  a  "  realizing  sense  "  of  things. 
We  hear  as  though  we  heard  not ;  we  go  our  way, 
one  to  his  farm,  another  to  his  merchandise,  and 
think  of  the  matter  no  more.  But  when  the  voice 
of  God  calls,  "  Where  is  the  African,  thy  brother?" 
will  it  be  a  satisfactory  answer  to  Questioner  or 
questioned,  "I  know  not, — I  did  not  think  much 
about  it,  one  way  or  another"?  We  may  go  on 
thoughtlessly,  but,  rigorous  and  pitiless,  winter 
marches  over  the  freedmen.  Whether  we  hear 
or  forbear,  they  are  suffering  from  want  of  food 
and  shelter,  and  the  voice  of  their  blood  will 
surely  cry  unto  God  from  the  ground.  To  feed 
the  hungry,  and  clothe  the  naked,  is  the  impera 
tive  duty  of  this  hour.  More  than  ever  before, 
Religion  demands  to  know  faith  by  works.  "  Bring 
forth  fruits  meet  for  repentance,"  cried  the  Bap 
tist  ;  and  when  people  asked,  "  What  shall  we  do 
then  ?  "  he  uttered  no  abstractions,  but  "  He  that 
hath  two  coats,  let  him  impart  to  him  that  hath 
none ;  and  he  that  hath  meat,  let  him  do  likewise." 
If  Christ  Jesus  is  the  same  yesterday,  and  to-day, 
and  forever,  the  fruits  meet  for  repentance  are 
coats,  and  cloaks,  and  stockings  for  the  destitute 
negroes.  And  remember,  if  a  brother  or  a  sister 
be  naked,  and  destitute  of  daily  food,  and  one  of 
you  say  unto  them,  Depart  in  peace,  be  ye  warmed 
and  filled  j  I  am  very  sorry  for  you ;  I  wish  you 
were  comfortable ;  notwithstanding;  ye  n-ive  them 

™      */  O 


216          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

not  those  things  which  are  needful  for  the  body; 
what  doth  it  profit  ?  Let  us  not  so  mock  the 
Lord  as  to  pretend  to  be  his  followers,  if  we  will 
not  cherish  the  poor  whom,  in  answer  to  our  pray 
ers,  he  has  given  into  our  hands. 

Events  have  shown  the  freed  slaves  to  be  far 
superior  to  what  we  had  any  reason  to  expect. 
Bravery  in  battle,  fortitude  in  hardship,  skill,  inge 
nuity,  industry,  loyalty,  sagacity,  self-control,  pa 
tience,  have  been  discovered  where  we  should  have 
supposed  only  the  vices  and  weaknesses  of  a  cowed 
and  abject  people.  No  more  heroic  deeds  illus 
trate  the  annals  of  this  war  than  those  which  have 
been  performed  by  negroes.  They  have  been 
faithful  to  their  light,  though  it  must  have  shone 
but  dimly.  But  if  they  were  sottish,  brutal, 
vicious,  and  lazy,  to  the  last  degree,  our  duty 
would  remain  the  same.  What  they  are,  our  race 
has  made  them.  What  they  may  be,  it  belongs 
to  us  to  ascertain.  Lazarus  may  lie  at  the  gate 
full  of  sores,  desiring  only  the  fallen  crumbs ;  but 
since  they  are  the  sores  which  our  own  cruelty  has 
caused,  he  shall  not  be  turned  off  with  crumbs  or 
crust,  but  shall  have  balm  for  his  hurt,  wine  for 
his  fainting  heart,  meat  for  his  manhood's  wants. 

The  Sanitary  Commission  rides  on  the  wave  of 
popular  favor.  Let  us  rejoice.  It  has  struck  a 
vein  of  pure,  solid  religion.  It  is  the  very  spirit 
of  Christ,  organized  into  an  Institution1.  Heaven 
be  praised  that  the  prophecy  is  fulfilled,  and  kings 


CHRIST  IN  CAROLINA.  217 

are  its  nursing  fathers,  and  queens  its  nursing 
mothers ;  but  in  caring  for  our  own  blood,  let  us 
not  forget  the  blood  that  is  not  our  own,  the  sad- 
coursing  blood  that  has  flowed  through  generations 
of  sorrow.  We  have  enough  and  to  spare,  and 
heaven  and  earth  await  our  action.  It  is  Christ 
who  is  an  hungered  and  athirst.  In  all  their  afflic 
tion,  he  is  afflicted.  Shall  a  man  rob  God  ? 


10 


XIX. 

EDDYKNY-MUR-R-PHY. 

HERE  is  a  strange  hush  and  shadow 
m  tne  a^r  to'daji  and  the  Indian  sum- 
mer  is  less  beautiful  than  it  was.  All 
/ "'->£  because  a  little  shining,  smiling  face  is 
turned  towards  the  sunset,  and  I  see  it  no  more. 
A  little  shining  face,  square  and  full  and  healthy, 
yet  delicate  and  spiritual,  two  round  cheeks,  each 
with  its  own  deep  dimple,  in  which  the  very  spirit 
of  sunshine  lurks,  two  eyes  blue,  clear,  and  indus 
trious,  shaded  by  long  lovely  lashes,  a  high,  broad 
forehead  crowned  with  fine  silken-floss  hair, — 
face  and  hands,  and  jacket  and  trousers,  all  issu 
ing  forth  in  the  morning  tidy,  spotless,  all  coming 
back  at  night,  not  to  say  noon,  dingy  and  dusty 
and  draggled ;  as  why  should  they  not,  since  the 
little  feet  that  propelled  them  have  been  delving 
in  the  dust  or  digging  in  the  mud  all  day  with  un 
wearied  assiduity.  If  you  see  a  little  man  an 
swering  this  description,  he  will  not  take  it  amiss 
should  you  ask  him  his  name,  but  will  quite  exult- 


EDDYKNY-MUR-R-PHY.  219 

antly  reply,  "  Eddykny-wiwr-r-phy,"  trilling  out  the 
r  with  a  melody  so  beautiful,  rich,  limpid,  that  you 
will  make  him  repeat  it  half  a  dozen  times  for  joy 
in  the  rippling  sound.  O,  but  he  is  a  little  sun 
beam,  lighting  up  every  nook  and  cranny  of  the 
old  house,  and  he  makes  its  low  rooms  lovely  with 
his  frisking  and  questioning  and  glad  odd  ways. 

His  clothes  are  often  old  and  patched.  His 
father  works  hard  with  saw  and  scythe,  his  mother 
harder  still  over  wash-tub  and  ironing-table ;  but 
many  a  child  goes  clad  in  silk  and  brave  with 
feathers  who  might  take  lessons  in  politeness  of 
my  little  Irish  friend.  Indeed  I  know  few  Amer 
ican  mothers  who  train  their  children  in  the  mi 
nute  but  important  points  of  good  manners  so 
carefully  and  constantly  as  his  trim  Irish  mother. 

All  the  green  yard  and  the  broad  highway  be 
yond  are  alive  with  this  wild  young  life.  *  Yonder 
wood-pile  is  his  chariot  of  state.  Every  morning, 
long  before  the  dew  is  gone,  out  comes  he,  fresh 
from  sleep  and  breakfast,  fastens  his  lines  to  the 
open  gate,  mounts  that  wood-pile,  and  drives 
around  the  world.  Just  behind  it  is  his  garden 
plot,  where,  true  to  his  national  instinct,  he  raises 
innumerable  crops  of  cabbages  and  potatoes,  by 
the  aid  of  a  discarded  coffee-pot.  With  a  defunct 
dripping-pan  and  a  string,  he  drives  a  brisk  busi 
ness  in  the  freight  and  express  line.  Every  day 
at  noon  or  soon  after,  there  is  a  lull  in  the  atmos 
phere,  as  if  the  machinery  of  the  earth  had  some- 


220          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

how  stopped,  for  the  space  of  half  an  hour.  That 
is  because  Eddy  is  on  his  little  bed  fast  asleep. 
But  in  due  time  he  announces  to  the  universe  his 
reassumption  of  active  life  by  emerging  into  the 
yard  with  a  prolonged  yell  of  self-satisfaction, 
which  indeed,  with  a  few  slight  intervals  for  eat 
ing  and  drinking,  is  his  normal  condition  of  being. 
He  likes  much  to  be  "  around  "  when  anything  is 
going  on.  If  a  horse  stops  at  the  gate,  he  sits  on 
the  bank  and  gazes  at  him  with  steadfast,  speech 
less  rapture.  He  never  fails  to  make  his  appear 
ance,  with  unlimited  proffers  of  help,  whenever  I 
am  at  work  in  the  garden.  I  very  well  know 
what  the  sly  little  rogue  is  after.  The  small  rake 
is  lovely  in  his  eyes ;  the  slender  hoe  is  a  thing  of 
beauty ;  but  the  height  and  depth  of  unspeakable 
happiness  dwell  in  the  trowel.  It  is  so  manage 
able  for  his  tiny  hands.  Earth  offers  him  no 
greater  delight  than  permission  to  hold  that  trowel, 
and  no  greater  hope  than  that  he  may  be  allowed 
to  use  it,  —  which  I  sometimes  suffer  him  to  do,  to 
the  great  consternation  of  the  geraniums  and  other 
xhigh-born  weeds. 

There  is  a  muffled  bang  at  the  door.  It  is  Ed 
dy's  signal.  llis  fingers  are  not  yet  equal  to  the 
execution  of  a  grown-up  knock,  and  he  has  im 
provised  a  sort  of  suppressed  fisticuff.  We  answer 
his  summons.  It  is  a  little  tin  two-quart  pail  of 
water  which  he  has  pumped  and  brought  himself, 
- —  a  very  Herculean  labor  for  him.  Never  mind 


EDDYKNY-MUR-R-PHY.  221 

that  his  clean  clothes  are  spattered  and  soaked  as 
he  stands  there,  the  dampest,  sweetest  little  Aqua 
rius  one  shall  see  in  a  long  summer  day. 

"  Much  obliged,"  I  say,  deferentially. 

"  Much  obliged,"  he  repeats,  trudging  off  con 
tentedly,  a  little  confused  as  to  the  formulas  ap 
propriate  to  the  occasion,  but  sound  in  his  general 
principles. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  different  errand :  "  My  mother 
says  will  you  please  to  give  me  your  bak-set  to 
get  you  some  apples,"  or,  "  My  mother  is  much 
oblidged  for  your  still-yards."  We  call  it  a  bal 
ance,  but  no  matter.  Whatever  it  is,  he  is  always 
respectful,  always  courteous. 

His  mother  is  going  away  to  work  this  fine, 
frosty  autumn  morning.  Little  Jemmy  is  too 
young  to  be  left  behind  ;  but  Eddy,  at  the  mature 
age  of  four  years,  must  shift  for  himself.  To  be 
sure  he  will  be  perfectly  happy,  for  has  he  not  re 
counted  to  me  the  riches  which  the  low  cupboard- 
shelf  holds  in  store  for  him?  "  Two  keJcs  —  a  junk 
o'  meat  —  a  — junk  o'  bread  'n  butter  —  a  —  bowl 
o'  bread  'n  milk  —  a  junk  o'  meat  —  a  —  two  JceJcs," 
and  so  on,  with  a  revolving  circle  of  provisions,  in 
which,  after  the  fashion  of  his  sex,  he  will  find  a 
sufficient  solace  for  all  his  woes.  I  observe  that  his 
morning  is  chiefly  taken  up  with  jaunts  to  the  cup 
board,  if  one  may  judge  from  the  frequent  appear 
ance  of  "junks."  To  spare  a  remnant  for  dinner, 
we  invite  him  in  to  see  us.  He  accepts  with  alac- 


222         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

rity,  even  forgetting,  in  the  excitement  of  the  mo 
ment,  the  amenities  of  life.  "  Eddy,  what  is  that  on 
your  head  ?  "  A  moment  of  blankness,  a  flash  of 
memory,  and  off  comes  the  cap.  "And  where  is 
your  comforter  ?  "  He  investigates  himself  with 
great  solemnity.  "  Do'  know."  "  You  have  lost 
it  ?  "  "  Yes,  Sir  !  "  "  Then  you  must  go  at  once 
and  find  it."  He  disappears  for  two  minutes,  and 
returns  as  bright  as  if  successful.  "  I  can't  find  it. 
It 's  lost  a  mile."  Fortunately  his  mittens  cannot 
be  lost,  since  they  are  fastened  by  a  long  string 
around  his  neck,  and  dangle  at  his  side  like  two 
little  red  paws. 

In  the  house  he  finds  inexhaustible  food  for 
thought.  The  pictures  first  claim  his  attention. 
Then  he  is  exercised  on  the  subject  of  the  books. 
The  bell  in  the  kitchen  is  an  insoluble  mystery. 
Soon  he  flings  himself  flat  on  the  floor  to  inspect 
the  castors  on  the  lounge.  A  wagon  in  the  house 
is  a  thing  which  was  never  dreamt  of  in  his  phi 
losophy.  I  am  obliged  to  bid  him  not  talk  any 
more.  Obedient  as  usual,  he  complies,  asking  in 
a  loud  whisper,  "  What 's  tham  little  wheels  for?" 
"  You  must  not  talk  now,  Eddy,  because  I  am 
reading."  "  No !  "  he  exclaims,  promptly  and  so 
norously,  but  immediately  leans  against  me,  and 
asks,  in  a  very  gentle  whisper,  "  What 's  tham 
little  wheels  for?" 

It  is  a  fine  clear  Sunday,  and  Eddy  has  been  a 
dozen  miles  away  to  "  chur-r-ch,"  he  tells  me. 


EDDYKNY-MUR-R-PHY.  223 

"  And  what  did  you  do  at  church  ?  " 

"  I  kneeled  down  and  payed." 

"  To  whom  did  you  pray  ?  " 

"  Payed  to  God."  I  am  afraid  few  of  our 
Yankee  children  could  give  so  good  an  account  of 
themselves.  Ask  the  little  Protestant  four  and 
five-year  olds  what  they  did  at  church,  and  see 
what  they  will  say. 

He  comes  in  one  day  whisking  a  string  of  brown 
beads,  in  high  spirits.  "  What  are  you  going  to 
do  with  those  beads  ?  "  "  Pay  with  them.  My 
mother's  got  some  more."  "  Play  with  them?" 
"  No  ;  pay  with  them."  "  But  how  can  you  pray 
with  them  ?  "  With  the  utmost  good  nature  he 
gives  a  complete  explanation,  going  through  the 
whole  process  on  the  spot,  dashing  them  against 
his  white  forehead,  and  smiting  right  and  left,  re 
peating  with  more  readiness  than  reverence  one  of 
the  holy  names  with  each  blow ;  but  I  trust  the 
God  whom  he  ignorantly  worships  will  declare 
unto  him  His  peace.  Nor  will  he  long  worship 
ignorantly ;  for  his  careful  mother  teaches  him  the 
vital  points  of  religion,  as  his  daily  life  gives  am 
ple  evidence.  "  I  must  not  do  "  this  and  that,  he 
often  says,  half  to  himself;  "God  won't  love  me." 
Once  he  was  ill  for  several  days,  and,  awaking  one 
night,  he  told  his  mother  he  was  going  to  heaven. 
She  was  greatly  alarmed,  as  we  are  all  apt  to  be 
at  such  a  prospect ;  but  Eddy  persisted  that  he 
was  going.  "  Why,  Eddy,  do  you  want  to  go  to 


224          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

heaven  ?  "  "I  'd  like  to  go  to  heaven  with  Miss 
Ellen,"  he  replied.  To  round  off  the  romance  he 
ought  to  have  died ;  but  nothing  ever  does  happen 
to  me  out  of  the  common  line,  and,  accordingly, 
he  took  a  little  "  whik-sey "  and  vermifuge,  and 
got  well. 

And  now  he  has  left  us.  While  I  write  this  he 
is  journeying  towards  the  going  down  of  the  sun, 
and  I  am  resolved  to  set  my  affections  on  no  more 
Irish  children.  The  Great  West  will  swallow 
up  this  little  bubble  of  life,  and  I  shall  never 
again  rejoice  in  its  prismatic,  ever-changing  light. 
O  fair  and  fruitful  prairie-land,  receive  my  little 
wanderer  tenderly,  and  entreat  him  kindly.  He 
comes  to  you  in  innocence ;  restore  him,  I  pray 
you,  in  holiness.  He  comes  to  you  a  little  child,  a 
fresh  young  soul,  loving  and  loyal,  believing  in 
God,  in  his  father  and  mother,  and  in  all  good 
ness  and  purity.  What  will  you  do  for  him  ? 


XX. 


MAGAZINE    LITERATURE. 


IME  was  when  a  book  was  indeed,  as 
Choate  once  said,  the  only  immor 
tality.  But  at  present  there  is  a  vast 
amount  of  transient  immortality  float 
ing  about  in  the  columns  of  the  daily  paper,  the 
monthly  magazine,  and  the  quarterly  review. 
Scarcely  a  New  England  home  to  which  one  or 
more  of  these  messengers  does  not  find  access. 
Whether  the  extensive  prevalence  of  periodical 
literature  be  a  benefit  or  a  disadvantage,  is  not  yet 
fully  settled.  It  has  decided  opponents,  as  well  as 
warm  advocates.  The  dissemination  of  knowl 
edge,  say  the  former,  vulgarizes  knowledge.  A 
subject  which  is  to  be  treated  in  the  pages  of  a 
monthly  magazine  cannot  be  adequately  treated. 
It  can  neither  be  probed  to  its  depths,  nor  grasped 
in  its  breadth.  Its  scope  must  be  diminished  to 
meet  the  requirements  of  the  case.  The  first 
duty  of  a  magazinist  is  to  be  readable.  He  may 
be  profound,  logical,  systematic,  exhaustive,  but  if 
10*  o 


226          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

he  is  heavy,  or  abstruse,  it  is  all  over  with  him. 
The  public  is  willing  to  be  instructed,  but  it  will 
be  amused.  A  pill  in  the  sugar  if  you  can  smug 
gle  it  in,  but  the  sugar  at  all  events.  Now  sugar 
is  not  a  wholesome  diet.  Amusement  is  not 
the  stamina  of  great  men,  —  not  the  material 
wherewithal  nerve  and  muscle  and  strength  are 
created. 

Moreover,  they  say,  such  treatment  degrades 
the  subject.  Problems  that  require  a  lifetime  to 
elucidate,  and  a  volume  to  express,  are  treated  in 
twenty  pages  of  a  magazine,  or  sixty  of  a  quarter 
ly, —  treated  fragmentarily,  flippantly,  frivolously, 
but  in  a  sparkling,  easy  style  ',  and  the  multitude, 
because  they  understand  the  writer,  think  they 
understand  the  subject,  —  because  they  compre 
hend  his  views,  fancy  they  comprehend  the  object 
viewed,  —  and,  deeming  the  matter  finally  dis 
posed  of,  go  on  their  way  self-conceited  and  sat 
isfied  with  shallowness,  while  men  who  would 
devote  to  a  theme  the  time  and  study  of  which 
it  is  worthy  are  forestalled  by  penny-a-liners,  and 
the  public  is  cheated  of  its  due. 

The  far-reaching  periodical  literature  acts,  too, 
in  another  way.  Old  authors  that  have  stood  the 
test  of  time  are  summarily  set  aside  for  the  local 
gossip,  the  political  scandal,  the  namby-pamby 
romance,  tinsel  rhetoric,  crude  criticism,  and  ran 
dom  speculation  of  the  periodicals.  Matters  of 
temporary  interest  and  small  importance  usurp 


MAGAZINE  LITERATURE.  227 

the  time  that  should  be  devoted  to  the  giants  that 
lived  on  the  earth  in  former  days,  and  in  gaining  a 
knowledge  of  those  secrets  which  the  earth  stands 
waiting  to  reveal  to-day.  Small  welcome  will  the 
greater  part  of  the  literature  of  1861  receive  from 
2061.  It  has  neither  ballast  to  steady  it,  nor  sail 
to  carry  it  down  the  years.  Why,  then,  should  it 
receive  such  homage  at  our  hands  ? 

Now  there  may  be  truth  in  these  remarks,  if  it 
be  first  proven  that  amusement  is  incompatible 
with  benefit ;  that  a  subject  cannot  be  partially, 
and  at  the  same  time  justly  treated,  and  that 
the  people  who  write  and  read  magazines  would, 
if  there  were  no  magazines,  write  and  read  elabo 
rate  and  exhaustive  volumes  on  the  subjects  dis 
cussed  therein.  But  it  is  of  great  importance 
to  have  it  clearly  asserted,  and  stoutly  maintained, 
that  reading  is  not  to  be  a  penance.  An  object  is 
gained  when  writers  are  made  to  know  that  bald 
statements  are  not  enough,  that  bare  reasoning  is 
not  enough,  that  pure  mathematics  is  not  enough. 
The  earth  softens  its  granite  outlines  with  verdur 
ous  dimples,  relieves  its  bare  surface  with  majes 
tic  trees  and  smiling  lakes,  flecks  its  sombre  hues 
with  brilliant  colors,  opens  its  heart  everywhere 
to  the  sun's  fervid  kiss  ;  and  the  result  is,  that  the 
earth  is  not  only  prettier  to  look  at,  but  better  to 
live  on.  But  poor  human  nature  is  jealous  of  its 
pleasures.  It  has  become  so  accustomed  to  medi 
cine,  that,  if  its  food  is  not  bitter,  it  immediately 


228         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

suspects  sawdust.  Yet  Macaulay  and  Motley 
have  shown  that  the  truths  of  history  may  be 
clothed  upon  with  far  more  fascination  than  the 
fictions  of  the  imagination  ;  and  Romance  in  her 
most  gorgeous  attire  is  eclipsed  by  Science  robed 
only  in  her  native  honor.  The  times  of  the 
schoolmen  are  past.  They  did  yeoman's  service 
in  their  day,  but  their  day  is  gone  by.  The 
presumption  now  is,  that  the  writer  who  is  most 
interesting  is  the  best.  The  history  that  is  as 
hard  to  lay  down  as  a  novel  or  a  play,  is  likely  to 
be  the  truest  history.  For  the  two  differ  only 
in  this,  that  history  is  a  portrait,  where  the  novel 
is  a  study.  The  one  is  a  special  likeness,  but 
both  must  have  a  general  likeness.  History  is 
a  novel  "  founded  on  fact." 

It  is  probable  that  periodical  literature,  so  far 
from  diminishing,  really  increases  the  number  of 
"  solid  "  readers ;  that  the  great  mass  of  its  read 
ers  are  taken,  not  from  above,  but  from  below  its 
plane.  They  are  people  who,  without  the  maga 
zines,  would  not  only  not  read  Bacon  and  Plato, 
but  would  not  read  anything.  The  Ledger,  whose 
vast  circulation  was  a  thorn  in  the  sides  of  so 
many  of  its  more  cultivated  contemporaries,  need 
have  given  little  anxiety.  It  was  seen  in  the 
hands  of  those  who  read  nothing  else,  and  doubt 
less  they  were  elevated  and  improved  by  it.  The 
avowed  object  of  the  proprietor  was  to  awaken  a 
taste  for  reading  in  classes  where  such  taste  did 


MAGAZINE  LITERATURE.  229 

not  exist.  It  was  a  noble  and  humane  object, 
and  in  a  degree  successful.  From  the  Ledger 
the  gradation  is  easy  to  the  magazines,  and  from 
the  magazines  to  the  quarterlies,  and  from  the 
quarterlies  to  the  classics.  Certainly  these  pe 
riodicals  bring  the  old  authors  to  the  knowledge 
and  notice  of  thousands  who  would  otherwise 
never  hear  of  them.  It  was  Addison's  criticisms 
of  Milton  that  reintroduced  Milton  to  the  Eng 
lish  public,  and  Macaulay's  criticisms  of  Addison 
have  led  throngs  back  to  the  Spectator.  Many 
who  cannot  afford  to  buy  books  may  get  a  tolera 
ble  knowledge  of  their  contents  from  an  able  re- 

O 

view.  Without  the  review,  it  would  not  be  that 
they  would  buy  the  book,  but  they  would  have  no 
knowledge  of  it  whatever.  There  are  also  books 
which  one  does  not  care  to  read  as  a  whole,  but 
of  which  one  wants  a  bird's-eye  view,  so  that  the 
synopsis  of  a  judicious  reviewer  is  often  more 
valuable  than  the  book  itself;  while  the  necessity 
of  presenting  a  condensed,  yet  comprehensive, 
an  interesting,  and,  at  the  same  time,  valuable 
view  of  a  subject,  benefits  the  writer.  The 
amount  of  thought,  study,  research,  genius,  spread 
out,  or  rather  concentrated,  weekly,  monthly, 
quarterly,  before  the  public,  is  astonishing.  It 
is  true  that  future  investigations  may  make  mis 
chief  with  many  of  our  closely-reasoned  conclu 
sions.  The  brilliant  discovery  of  to-day  may  be 
thrown  entirely  into  the  shade  by  the  brilliant 


230          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

discoveries  of  distant  to-morrows  ;  but  such  a  shall 
be  will  be  only  the  counterpart  of  many  a  has  been. 
The  arguments  of  the  fifty-paged  quarterly  review 
ers  cannot  be  more  entirely  refuted  than  those  of 
the  many-volumed  mediaeval  philosophers.  In 
deed,  if  truth  could  be  precipitated  like  a  metal 
held  in  solution,  we  question  whether  a  single 
number  of  a  modern  monthly,  bought  for  twenty- 
five  cents,  does  not  sometimes  contain  as  much  of 
it  as  whole  book-shelves  of  the  old  fine-drawn  ec 
clesiastics. 

At  the  same  time,  there  is  danger  lest  reading 
conduce  to  frivolity.  A  diet  composed  exclusively 
of  Lady's  Books  and  Gentleman's  Magazines  is 
only  one  remove  from  starvation.  A  man  is  not 
necessarily  intelligent  because  he  reads  his  county 
newspaper.  He  who  stops  there  will  scarcely  be 
rewarded  for  having  begun.  The  only  difference 
between  some  readers  of  newspapers,  and  those 
who  read  nothing,  is  that  the  former  know  the 
gossip  and  scandal  of  the  country,  while  the  latter 
know  only  the  gossip  and  scandal  of  their  own  vil 
lage.  The  only  difference  between  some  readers 
of  magazines  and  those  who  read  nothing,  is  that 
the  former  have  filled  their  lives  with  milk-and- 
water  romancing,  and  unmitigated  snobbery,  while 
the  latter  have  never  deviated  from  the  bread  and 
butter  of  their  homely  circle  ;  and  though  the  snob 
is  unquestionably  higher  than  the  clod,  both  are 
so  far  below  the  true  man,  that  the  difference  be 
tween  them  is  scarcely  perceptible. 


MAGAZINE  LITERATURE.  231 

But  for  any  danger  that  may  happen  to  litera 
ture,  no  one  need  give  himself  the  smallest  con 
cern.  Literature  was  made  for  man,  not  man  for 
literature.  Whatever  ministers  to  human  needs 
has  a  right  to  live.  Whatever  innocently  amuses, 
comforts,  instructs,  strengthens,  has  its  justification 
in  its  work.  There  is  no  divine  right  in  the  twelve 
books  of  the  epic  which  does  not  equally  inhere  in 
the  Poet's  Corner  of  the  village  newspaper.  The 
ponderous  volum'e  whose  immortality  consists  in 
lying  in  state  "in  every  gentleman's  library,"  may 
have  less  influence  in  building  up  a  noble  manhood 
than  the  vigorous  leader  in  Tuesday's  paper,  which 
nobody  reads  on  Wednesday.  The  book  which 
solaces  the  weary  mother  while  rocking  the  cra 
dle,  or  from  which  the  household  drudge  catches  a 
page  of  sunshine  or  sympathy  while  standing  over 
the  cooking-range,  waiting  for  the  milk  to  boil,  — 
the  book  in  which  the  day-laborer  finds  an  assur 
ance  of  human  brotherhood,  or  the  humble  mourn 
er  a  glimpse  of  the  silver  lining  of  his  cloud,  —  does 
just  as  high  a  service  and  makes  just  as  good  an 
excuse  for  being,  as  the  "standard  work"  whose 
name  is  on  the  tongue  of  every  would-be  critic, 
and  whose  contents  are  perhaps  mastered  by  a 
hundred  scholars  in  a  hundred  generations.  The 
ennobling  of  man  is  a  better  thing  than  the  enno 
bling  of  literature.  The  ennobling  of  man,  first  or 
last,  is  the  ennobling  of  literature.  The  process 
may  be  hidden,  but  the  result  is  sure.  The  streams 


232          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

run  underground,  but  they  mingle.  No  good  thing 
is  cast  into  the  river  of  humanity  but  it  shall  -rise 
again,  in  some  far-off  fountain  of  song  or  saga. 
The  book  which  leaves  its  mark  on  the  human 
soul,  helping  to  fashion  it  for  the  indwelling  of  the 
Holy  Spirit,  or  to  deform  it  into  a  haunt  for  devils, 
is  the  immortal  book,  whether  its  name  go  securely 
down  the  centuries  or  pass  away  with  spring's  first 
violets. 


XXI. 


WORDS   FOR   THE  WAY. 


>HEN  any  patriotic  person  groans  un 
der  the  pressure  of  the  war,  he  may 
find  his  account  in  reading  such  a 
book  as  Fanny  Kemble's  Journal 
of  her  Plantation  Life  in  Georgia,  or  in  looking 
at  certain  well-authenticated  photographs  of  the 
backs  of  negro  slaves  who  have  come  into  our 
lines,  —  photographs  taken  and  exhibited  for  the 
purpose  of  giving  infallible  proofs  of  the  tender 
mercies  of  slavery  as  seen  in  welt  and  scar.  The 
book  can  scarcely  be  called  pleasant  summer  read 
ing,  and  as  specimens  of  art  the  pictures  may 
not  compare  favorably  with  the  "  Heart  of  the 
Andes,"  or  Bierstadt's  "  Rocky  Mountains  "  ;  but 
as  a  specific  for  heart-sickness  contracted  by  hope 
of  victory  long  deferred,  I  know  nothing  better. 
The  war  for  which  three  months  seemed  an  age, 
has  dragged  its  slow  length  along  three  years  and 
more.  Good  people  there  are,  lovers  of  their 
country,  but  lovers  also  of  quiet,  haters  of  strife 


234         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

and  bloodshed,  weary  with  waiting  for  the  grand 
"  movement "  which  is  to  crush  rebellion,  and 
bring  back  to  us  the  dear  placidity  of  old  days  ; 
people  who  desire  their  country's  honor  to  be  de 
fended,  her  integrity  preserved,  and  her  slaves 
emancipated,  but  who  long  with  an  irrepressible 
longing  for  the  time  which  shall  stay  the  effusion 
of  blood,  are  sometimes  tempted  to  say  within 
themselves,  x'  Where  is  the  promise  of  his  com 
ing? "  But  when  we  read  and  see  such  portrayals 
of  the  abominations  of  slavery,  when  we  remember 
that  these  unspeakable  outrages  have  been  en 
dured  by  millions  of  people,  not  for  three  years, 
but  for  a  time  that  can  be  reckoned  by  genera 
tions,  —  endured  without  the  hope  that  ever  so 
patient  endurance,  or  ever  so  heroic  valor,  should 
lighten  the  burden  or  avert  the  future  woe,  —  en 
dured  without  seeing  in  any  quarter  the  dawn  of 
a  release  ;  thinking  of  this,  we  should  reckon  the 
sufferings  of  this  present  war  not  worthy  to  be 
compared  with  those  under  which  the  African 
race  has  so  long  groaned,  being  burdened.  All 
the  pangs  of  parting,  all  the  torture  of  wounds,  all 
the  agonies  of  death,  every  bitter  measure  which 
has  been  meted  out  to  us,  would  not  balance  the 
physical  pain,  the  mental  woe,  which  we  have 
dealt  to  the  slave ;  nor  have  we  anything  to  off 
set  the  spiritual  degradation  to  which  we  have 
confined,  if  not  reduced  him.  We,  too,  have  the 
great  content  of  being  free  agents  ;  he  only  bent 
to  an  inexorable  necessitv. 


WORDS  FOR    THE   WAY.  235 

In  the  natural  sequence  of  events,  which  is  but 
another  name  for  Divine  law,  slavery  and  the  war 
stand  to  each  other  in  the  relation  of  cause  to  ef 
fect.  There  may  be  for  both  a  deeper  cause,  but 
this  is  the  immediate  connection.  Now  since  there 
is  for  nations  no  redemption,  no  atonement,  but 
only  the  natural  law,  eye  for  eye,  tooth  for  tooth, 
hand  for  hand,  foot  for  foot,  burning  for  burning, 
wound  for  wound,  stripe  for  stripe  ;  until  we  have 
suffered,  in  mind,  body,  and  estate,  as  much  as  the 
negro  race  has  suffered  at  our  hands,  we  have  no 
reason  to  think  it  strange  concerning  the  fiery  trial 
which  is  trying  us,  as  though  some  strange  thing 
happened  unto  us.  Nay,  as  under  the  Hebrew 
law,  ordained  of  God,  for  the  stolen  ox  five  oxen 
should  be  restored,  and  four  sheep  for  a  sheep  ; 
since  the  prophet  of  old  time  was  not  commanded 
to  speak  comfortably  unto  Jerusalem  that  her  war 
fare  was  accomplished,  until  she  had  received  of 
the  Lord's  hand  double  for  all  her  sins  ;  since  in 
Apocalyptic  vision  the  voice  from  heaven  cried, 
"  In  the  cup  which  she  hath  filled,  fill  to  her 
double,"  we  have,  at  least,  indication  that  we 
may  not  look  for  deliverance  till  the  shame  and 
sorrow  of  the  subject  race  have  been  twice  and 
thrice  poured  out  upon  our  own  heads.  I  do  not 
say  that  it  will  be  so  with  us,  that  this  is  the  inva 
riable  Divine  mode  of  procedure  ;  but  that  it  is  the 
only  thing  we  have  a  right  to  expect,  and  that  if 
peace  comes  before  we  have  drunk  the  dregs  of  the 


236          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

cup  of  retribution,  it  will  be  of  mercy,  and  not  of 
law. 

The  innocence  of  individuals  is  no  plea  for  im 
munity.  It  is  but  "  done  as  others  use,"  to  suf 
fer,  to  fight,  to  die  for  the  freedom  of  the  negro 
whom  we  have  not  enslaved,  and  for  the  defence 
of  the  Union  which  we  have  always  upheld,  and 
whose  honor  we  have  never  violated.  Individuals 
cannot  escape  the  penalty,  even  if  they  escape  the 
contamination  of  the  society  to  which  they  belong, 
and  our  society  is  verily  guilty  concerning  our 
brother.  Through  the  good  hand  of  our  God 
upon  us,  in  war  and  its  confusions,  we  have  been 
led  to  a  partial  view  of  the  error  of  our  ways  ;  but 
we  are  not  yet  fully  aroused  to  do  justly.  Was  it 
a  Northern  or  a  Southern  Congress  that,  but  a  few 
months  ago,  refused  to  give  the  people  an  opportu 
nity  to  abolish  slavery  according  to  the  Constitu 
tion  ?  Ever  since  the  war  began,  the  footsteps  of 
justice  have  been  through  fire  and  flood,  and  we 
would  have  it  so. 

Another  consideration  should  have  weight. 
The  unvarying  testimony  concerning  our  army 
proclaims  its  spirit  invincible.  Chaplains,  sur 
geons,  delegates  of  the  Christian  Commission, 
wounded  soldiers  returning  on  furlough,  bear 
witness  to  the  courage,  the  heart,  the  "pluck" 
of  the  men.  A  brother,  himself  wounded,  just 
come  from  his  brother's  grave,  writes  home :  "  I 
lost  a  dear  friend  when  Charley  died,  but,  thank 


WORDS  FOR    THE    WAY.  237 

God,  he  died  a  brave  soldier.  Live  or  die,  we 
must  not  give  up  the  war  till  the  rebellion  is 
crushed."  A  boy  of  eighteen,  brought  into  the 
hospital,  speechless  and  bleeding,  writes  on  a  slip 
of  paper  to  the  by-standers  to  have  "  Rally  round 
the  flag,  boys,"  sung,  and  waves  his  bloody  arms 
above  his  head  in  jubilant  chorus.  A  wounded 
negro  standard-bearer  wraps  the  flag  around  his^ 
body,  crawls  on  his  hands  and  knees  a  mile  and 
a  quarter  to  where  his  comrades  are,  and  cries  to 
them,  "  Take  it,  boys,  take  it !  It  has  n't  touched 
the  ground!"  From  the  extreme  Southwest,  from 
Virginia,  from  the  front  all  along  the  lines,  comes 
the  same  note  of  courage  and  unflinching  purpose  ; 
and  if  they,  who  bear  all  the  hardship,  and  brave 
all  the  danger,  keep  a  stout  and  even  a  merry 
heart,  does  it  become  us  at  home  to  exceedingly 
fear  and  quake  ?  The  one  complaint  from  the  sol 
diers  is  an  indignant  and  bitter  denunciation  of 
Northern  Rebel  sympathizers.  It  is  a  fire  in  the 
rear  against  which  they  are  not  armed,  and  with 
which  they  have,  justly  enough,  no  patience.  Let 
those  who  are  not  Rebel  sympathizers  beware  lest 
an  unmanly  and  unwomanly  faint-heartedness  put 
them  in  the  wrong  category. 

For  the  matter  of  high  prices,  let  it  not  be  so 
much  as  named  among  us  !  So  far  as  it  is  the  re 
sult  of  greed,  it  is  to  be  denounced  and  resisted. 
May  every  man  who  has  added  one  iota  to  his 
country's  perplexity  that  he  might  fill  his  own 


238         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

pockets,  find  his  gains  to  be  as  rottenness  in  his 
bones.  But,  as  one  of  the  hardships  of  the  war, 
high  prices  are  to  be  nothing  accounted  of.  Sup 
pose  sugar  is  thirty  cents  a  pound,  molasses  a  dol 
lar  a  gallon,  beef  sold  by  the  square  inch,-cotton 
cloth  sixty  cents  a  yard,  and  gold  at  two  hundred 
and  eighty  the  dollar.  How  long  has  it  been  since 
a  man's  life  consisted  in  the  abundance  of  sweets 
which  he  could  swallow  ?  If  sugar  is  three  times 
as  high  as  it  used  to  be,  use  one  third  as  much  of 
it,  and  the  equilibrium  is  at  once  restored.  Even  at 
that  we  shall  probably  have  as  much  as  the  soldiers 
have.  If  St.  Paul  would  agree  to  eat  no  meat 
while  the  world  standeth,  lest  he  make  his  brother 
to  offend,  cannot  Christian  men  and  women  forego 
beefsteak  for  a  year,  or  two,  or  three,  or  twenty, 
that  a  nation  perish  not  ?  If  cambric  and  linen 
are  expensive,  are  we  all  princes  and  princesses 
that  we  must  have  twelve  dozen  of  everything, 
the  wardrobe  through  ?  Pull  out  the  fcureau 
drawers  and  use  their  contents  unflinchingly,  re 
gardless  of  the  future,  where  the  honor  of  now  is 
imperative;.  Attack  the  old  linings  with  scissors 
and  needle,  and  "gar  auld  claes  look  amaist  as 
weel  's  the  new."  Ask  for  black  buttons  at  the 
shops,  and  then  see  what  an  inexhaustible  mine  of 
black  buttons  your  old  boots  at  home  are,  and 
walk  away  without  purchasing,  at  a  clear  gain  of 
forty-two  cents.  Make  your  loaf-cake  of  dried 
apples  and  molasses,  and  affirm  resolutely  that  no- 


WORDS  FOR    THE    WAY.  239 

body  could  tell  the  difference,  till  people  are  si 
lenced  if  not  convinced  !  Economy  can  be  made 
as  interesting  as  a  mathematical  problem,  and  as 
merry  as  a  July  picnic.  And  having  economized 
carefully  and  successfully,  consider  that  the  pleasure 
and  the  privilege  of  it  are  enough  for  your  share, 
and  send  the  money  saved  to  the  relief  of  wounded 
soldiers,  or  of  the  freed  people. 

It  may  be  said  that  this  does  not  take  into  ac 
count  the  really  poor  people  ;  but,  so  far  as  I  have 
observed,  the  fearful  looking  for  is  not  among  the 
really  poor  people.  It  is  not  those  who  are  threat 
ened  with  absolute  want,  but  those  who  fear  a 
curtailment  of  luxuries,  a  diminution  of  dividends, 
an  increase  of  expenditure,  who  have  the  most 
anxiety. 

Let  it  not  be  forgotten  that  all  these  calamities 
are  trying  this  nation  as  never  nation  before  was 
tried.  There  is  a  popular  use  of  the  word  "  trial " 
which  "is  not  strictly  correct.  We  often  make  it 
synonymous  with  affliction.  "  To  try,"  not  seldom 
means  to  annoy,  to  provoke,  to  weary,  to  har 
ass,  to  exasperate.  But  we  confound  result  with 
process.  To  try,  is  to  test.  All  afflictions  are 
trials,  but  all  trials  are  not  afflictions.  A  fretful 
child  tries,  that  is,  tests,  the  mother's  temper.  Her 
temper  does  not  stand  the  test.  She  too  becomes 
fretful  and  impatient.  It  may  be  her  fault  or  the 
fault  of  circumstances.  It  may  be  that  her  temper 
is  not  under  as  firm  control  as  it  should  be,  or 


240          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

that  the  test  is  severer  than  it  ought  to  be,  or 
both ;  at  any  rate,  she  does  not  stand  the  test, 
and  it  becomes  an  annoyance.  Another  person 
is  tried  by  a  lovely  child.  She  falls  into  a  weak 
idolatry  and  pride,  and  her  test  becomes  her  sin. 
The  fact  that  trial  has  so  largely  come  to  mean 
sorrow,  grief,  annoyance,  is  a  strong  indication 
that  trials  generally  do  not  bring  out  well-tem 
pered  metal.  Let  them  reveal  comprehensive 
minds  and  serene  hearts ;  let  a  man  possess  his 
soul  in  patience ;  be  just  as  benevolent  and  self- 
respectful,  whether  he  be  raised  from  poverty 
to  affluence,  or  cast  down  from  affluence  to  pov 
erty,  and  trials  will  presently  come  to  mean  bless 
ings. 

Ever  since  Thomas  Paine,  we  have  talked  about 
the  times  that  tried  men's  souls,  not,  as  a  general 
thing,  perhaps,  having  any  very  definite  idea  of 
what  we  were  talking  about.  We  meant  the 
days  of  the  Revolution,  and  were  referring  to  their 
straits,  and  suffering,  and  bloodshed ;  but  the  days 
on  which  we  have  fallen  are  sounding  the  hitherto 
unfathomed  depths  of  many  an  abysmal  word  on 
whose  fair  and  beautiful  surface  we  have  pleas 
antly  floated,  not  dreaming  of  the  gems  held  in 
its  silent  caverns.  Patriotism,  loyalty,  truth,  hon 
esty,  courage,  victory,  defeat,  disaster,  cowardice, 
rebellion,  treason,  —  what  revelations  have  these 
last  years  made !  We  saw  only  the  green  boughs 
and  sprays  and  vines  that  overarched,  concealing, 


WORDS  FOR    THE    WAY.  241 

granite  gates.  The  drum-beat  of  war  has  been 
an  open  sesame,  throwing  back  the  unsuspected 
portals,  and  discovering  vista  upon  vista  stretch 
ing  down  measureless  distances  till  the  solemn 
aisles  lose  themselves  in  the  inward  fastnesses  of 
humanity. 

Times  that  try  men's  souls !     We  have  fallen 
on  such  times.     We  are  all  in  the  crucible. 

"  We  wait  beneath  the  furnace  blast 
The  pangs  of  transformation." 

In  common  days  we  go  on  pleasantly  together. 
We  lift  ourselves  to  gentle  heights.  We  slide, 
unastonished,  into  easy  depths.  The  war  comes 
slowly  at  first,  and  not  severe.  It  is  a  toy,  bril 
liant  and  sonorous,  with  just  enough  of  danger  to 
make  it  piquant,  fascinating,  exhilarating.  It  stirs 
our  sluggish  blood  to  heroic,  joyful  pulses.  We 
watch  it  with  eager  eyes,  but  a  smile  on  the  lips. 
It  rolls  along,  furrowing  for  itself  a  deeper  groove 
in  our  lives,  our  homes,  our  hearts.  It  is  no 
longer  a  toy ;  it  has  grown  into  a  fearful  engine. 
We  cannot  toss  it  away.  We  cannot  control  it. 
We  can  but  imperfectly  guide  it.  It  whirls  on, 
now  slowly,  now  swiftly,  always  terrible,  crushing 
a  nation's  hearts  beneath  its  iron  wheels.  Inexo 
rable,  pitiless,  we  fling  ourselves  in  vain  against 
those  ponderous  sides,  and  tears  and  sobs  and 
moans  are  powerless  to  hinder  its  career.  The 
smile  dies  out  of  our  lips.  Shall  they  become 
tremulous  with  fear,  pallid  with  despair,  distorted 
11  p 


242          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

with  base  entreaty,  or  shall  they  be  firm  with 
manly  purpose  ? 

This  is  the  test,  the  trial.  This  shall  show  what 
manner  of  people  we  are.  The  way  in  which  we 
bear  ourselves  through  the  lingering  and  disas 
trous  days  of  this  war,  shall  be  our  proof  to  our 
selves  and  to  our  children.  We  can  be  weak, 
impatient,  querulous,  driven  about  by  every  wind 
of  rumor,  now  desponding,  now  exultant,  com 
plaining,  foreboding,  lamenting,  regretting.  We 
can  be  hopeful,  cheerful,  trustful,  patient,  learn 
ing  to  wait  as  well  as  to  labor,  drawing  from 
history,  from  philosophy,  from  religion,  consola 
tion  under  defeat,  caution  in  judgment,  industry 
after  victory,  energy  after  disaster,  and  wisdom  in 
all  things. 

We  can  see  in  numerous  instances  how  these 
times  have  tried  men's  souls.  Here  and  there 
they  "  shine  in  the  sudden  making  of  splendid 
names."  Men  who  walked  unknown  along  the 
plains  of  peace,  have  risen  above  the  wild  surg- 
ings  of  these  war-waves  "  in  shape  and  gesture 
proudly  eminent."  There  have  been  unfolded 
calm  souls,  clear  to  see,  and  strong. to  grasp  the 
opportunity.  The  fire  that  lay  hidden  in  many 
a  heart  has  flashed  out  into  flame,  consuming  the 
gathered  dross  of  drowsy  years,  and  refining  the 
latent  gold.  Among  the  living  and  the  dead,  we 
count  up  names  that  will  never  die.  We  have 
seen,  too,  sadder  sights.  Men  that  did  run  well, 


WORDS   FOR    THE    WAY.  243 

hindered, — men  that  stood  in  angel  guise  whisper 
ing  softly  into  the  world's  slumberous  ear,  changed 
by  the  touch  of  these  glittering  war-spears  into 
loathsome  shapes,  —  men  who  were  thought  to 
have  attained  the  fulness  of  the  ideal  manhood, 
weighed  in  the  balance  and  found  wanting, — 
hopes  that  did  mount  gloriously,  coming  down  in 
utter  darkness. 

The  nation  has  been  tried,  —  tried  by  domestic 
rebellion,  by  foreign  threats,  by  the  frightful  inca 
pacity  of  its  leaders,  —  and  the  trial  is  still  going 
on.  Its  courage,  its  persistence,  its  magnanimity, 
its  resolution,  its  humanity,  —  almost  every  quality 
that  a  nation  should  possess,  —  has  been  tried  by 
the  exigencies  of  this  war,  and  is  yet  in  the  furnace 
heat.  What  the  result  will  be,  God  alone  knows. 

Insatiable  ambition,  insatiable  avarice,  struck 
deep  into  the  nation's  life,  this  war  has  brought 
to  light.  But  there  has  also  been  developed  an 
eagerness  for  sacrifice,  an  unselfish  devotion,  a 
trust  in  God,  which  is  the  basis  of  noble  charac 
ter.  God  will  decide  the  issue.  He  knows 
whether  there  is  virtue  enough  in  the  land  to 
redeem  it.  If  it  is  worth  saving,  it  will  be 
saved.  If  it  is  not  worth  saving,  it  is  better  that 
it  should  be  destroyed.  •  He  doeth  His  pleas 
ure  among  the  inhabitants  of  earth  as  well  as  in 
the  armies  of  heaven.  Our  part  is  to  work  with 
might  and  main ;  to  strain  nerve  and  muscle  to 
put  down  the  rebellion  on  the  one  side,  and  to 


244          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

raise  our  own  standard,  and  the  standard  of  all 
men,  to  the  moral  heights  which  God  requires,  on 
the  other.  We  sigh  for  a  great  man,  but  it  may 
be  the  will  of  God  —  it  certainly  is  so  far  —  that 
we  shall  not  have  a  great  man.  We  must  do  the 
work  ourselves.  A  great  man  is  not  in  accord 
ance  with  the  "  spirit  of  our  institutions."  We 
are  a  democracy,  and  it  is  the  people  that  must 
save  the  country.  We  must  work  with  such  ma 
terial  as  we  have.  And  while  we  are  doing  with 
our  might  whatsoever  our  hands  find  to  do,  we 
must,  if  we  are  faithful,  besiege  the  throne  of 
Heaven  with  an  importunity  that  will  not  be  re 
sisted  ;  in  all  places  and  at  all  times  making  suppli 
cation  unto  God  for  the  help  that  he  never  refuses ; 
beseeching  him  to  take  the  leadership,  and  so  to 
guide  us  that  our  cause  shall  be  His  cause,  and 
our  prayer  for  national  unity,  and  peace,  and  free 
dom,  one  with  "  Thy  kingdom  come,  Thy  will 
be  done." 


XXII. 


"OUT    IN   THE    COLD." 


:OR  many  years  the  great  bugbear  of 
this  country  has  been  Disunion.  Love- 
joy  was  shot  in  Alton ;  Dr.  Bailey  was 
mobbed  in  Washington ;  Judge  Hoar 
was  driven  eut  of  Charleston  ;  and  Garrison  was 
dragged  through  the  streets  of  Boston  with  a  rope 
around  his  neck,  to  placate  this  implacable  mon 
ster.  Books  were  tampered  with,  traffic  was  tainted, 
printing-presses  thrown  into  the  river,  and  pulpits 
so  polluted  that  they  ought  to  have  been ;  nothing 
was  held  too  precious,  too  sacred,  to  be  offered  on 
his  shrine.  Free  speech,  free  press,  free  action, 
were  all  tossed  into  his  ravenous  maw.  States 
men,  tradesmen,  merchants,  ministers,  saints,  and 
sinners,  all  .went  down  on  their  knees,  and  agreed 
that  black  was  white,  if  so  he  might  be  fended  off. 
Nay,  they  not  only  agreed  to  it,  —  they  argued  it ; 
they  swore  to  maintain  it,  and  henceforth  to  toler 
ate  no  doubt,  and  suffer  no  agitation  on  the  subject, 
lest  the  dragon  should  rear  his  horrid  front  again. 


24G          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

But  there  is  an  end  of  that.  We  shall  prob 
ably  never  —  certainly  not  for  this  generation  — 
have  any  more  Southern  menaces  of  disunion. 
No  right  will  have  to  be  postponed,  no  wrong 
allowed,  because  the  South  threatens  to  with 
draw.  If  she  accomplishes  her  purposes,  there 
will  be  no  occasion  for  a  renewal  of  her  threat ; 
and  if  she  does  not,  no  possibility.  But  the  re 
sources  of  Satan  are  infinite;  and,  having  ridden  one 
horse  to  death,  he  has  now  slipped  upon  the  back 
of  another  to  take  an  airing  through  the  North. 
Finding  that  his  bugbear  is  going  to  be  transfixed 
and  analyzed,  and  all  that  is  bug  hooted,  and  all 
that  is  bear  throttled  out  of  existence,  he  sets  up 
a  new  and  fresh  one.  Slavery,  not  feeing  able  to 
drag  the  South  out  of  the  Union,  is  now  making  a 
frantic  effort  to  push  New  England  out.  Having 
tried  in  vain  to  fix  a  great  gulf  along  Mason  and 
Dixon's  line,  she  next  undertakes  to  chip  off  Ply 
mouth  Rock.  But  slavery  will  find  no  more  profit 
to  herself  in  stone-cutting  than  in  ditch-digging. 
Plymouth  Rock  was  cut  out  of  the  mountain  with 
out  hands,  and  hands  cannot  prevent  it  from  be 
coming  a  great  mountain,  and  filling  the  whole 
earth.  Suppose  New  England  were  thrust  out  of 
the  Union,  had  Zimri  peace  who  slew  his  master  ? 
Would  the  principles  that  have  made  New  Eng 
land  what  she  is  be  any  less  forceful  because  she 
was  no  longer  called  America  ?  A  rose  by  any 
other  name  is  just  as  sweet.  If  New  England 


"OUT  IN  THE  COLD."  247 

were  baptized  New  Zealand,  righteousness  would 
still  go  up  a  sweet  savor  unto  the  Lord. 

Is  it  said  that  such  expulsion  would  be  her  ruin, 
—  that  henceforth  her  name  would  be  but  a  mem 
ory  ?  What  then  ?  Is  civilization  shut  up  in  Bos 
ton  State-House  ?  Whom  the  gods  will  destroy, 
they  first  make  mad.  Are  men  mad  enough  to 
suppose  that,  at  this  late  day,  truth  crushed  to 
earth  will  not  rise  again?  that,  because  John 
Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave, 
his  soul  is  mouldering  with  it?  Plymouth  Rock 
is  no  bit  of  quartz  or  feldspar,  but  a  principle  ; 
and  principles  will  live  and  reign  though  New 
England  be  not  only  left  out  in  the  cold,  but 
thrust  down  into  the  ocean  depths  forever.  Every 
church,  every  school-house,  every  town-house, 
from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  has  Plymouth 
Rock  for  its  foundation-stone.  Every  man  in 
every  land  who  opens  his  mouth  for  truth,  stands 
on  Plymouth  Rock.  Wherever  Freedom  aims  a 
musket,  or  plants  a  standard,  or  nerves  an  arm, 
or  sings  a  song,  or  makes  a  protest,  or  murmurs 
a  prayer,  there  is  Plymouth  Rock.  Cows  may 
meander,  as  of  old,  along  Washington  Street ;  but 
the  hands  shall  not  go  back  on  the  dial-plate  of 
God.  Boston  may  be  grass-grown,  and  New  Eng 
land  forgotten,  but  love  of  life  and  love  of  liberty 
shall  never  die  out  of  the  hearts  of  men.  Let 
Southern  traitors  and  their  Northern  abettors 
arrange  things  as  they  will.  Let  them  eject  New 


248          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

England,  sheathe  the  sword,  stifle  discussion,  in 
augurate  Jefferson  Davis,  annul  the  freedman,  and 
perpetuate  the  slave  ;  is  that  the  end  ?  Will  they 
so  find  rest  ?  Will  cotton  once  more  resume 
sway,  and  right  be  forever  held  in  abeyance  ? 
Never,  so  long  as  there  is  a  conscience  in  man,  or 
a  God  in  heaven  !  They  may  make  themselves  a 
new  Pandora's  box,  filled  with  peace,  and  com 
merce,  and  wealth,  and  every  blessing,  but  this 
evil  at  the  bottom  shall  poison  every  good.  They 
cannot  bind  it  to  quietude.  They  may  resolve 
and  legislate  and  menace ;  Jefferson  Davis  and 
all  his  kind  may  bear  down  upon  it  with  their 
whole  force  ;  but  the  divinely  appointed  unrest  of 
iniquity  will  heave  and  throb  till  the  vexed  lid  fly 
up  with  a  rebound  that  shall  hurl  them  to  irrevo 
cable  doom.  Men  forget  that  Qthics  is  not  me 
chanics.  They  forget  the  divine  power  of  truth,  — 
the  divine  nature  of  humanity.  God  made  man 
in  his  own  image ;  in  the  image  of  God  created  he 
him  ;  male  and  female  created  he  them.  And  can 
it  be  supposed  that  male  and  female,  created  in 
God's  own  image,  are  to  remain  eternally  passive 
under  the  weight  of  hell's  oppression,  or,  worse 
than  this,  are  to  be  the  ever  patient  agents  of  hell's 
iniquity?  If  the  programme  of  these  lewd  fellows 
of  the  basest  sort,  these  Northern  men,  who,  of 
their  own  free  will  and  taste,  souse  their  hands  into 
the  filth  amid  which  their  Southern  comrades  were 
most  innocently  born ;  if  their  programme  could 


"OUT  IN  THE   COLD."  249 

be  carried  out ;  if  New  England  could  be  quietly 
disposed  of;  if  the  cry  of  three  millions  of  slaves 
could  be  hushed,  and  the  voice  of  nineteen  millions 
of  freemen  stilled,  and  a  dead  silence  reign  through 
out  the  land,  —  the  woe  to  the  African  would  be  a 
thousand  and  a  thousand  fold  less  than  the  woe  to 
his  Caucasian  oppressor.  But  this  cannot  be,  be 
cause  the  good  in  man  can  no  more  be  ignored 
than  the  evil ;  because  there  is  implanted  in  him 
a  divine  spark,  which  is  ever  springing  up  into 
flame.  Whoever  makes  laws  or  frames  plans, 
without  taking  into  account  the  action  of  this  ir 
repressible  agent,  will  find  his  laws  and  his  plans 
blown  finally  to  a  thousand  fragments,  by  its 
checked  and  accumulated  forces. 

Meanwhile,  let  us  possess  our  souls  in  patience. 
The  cry  of  separation  between  North  and  South 
is,  it  seems,  to  be  superseded  by  the  cry  of  separa 
tion  between  East  and  West.  If  we  are  to  be  cut 
off,  so  be  it ;  but  do  not  let  us  die  a  thousand 
deaths  through  fear  of  one.  Dread  of  Southern 
separation  has  sat  at  our  council-boards  for  a  life 
time  ;  if  this  fresh  one  is  to  supplant  it,  the  little 
finger  of  the  new  tyrant  will  be  thicker  than  the 
loins  of  the  old.  The  best  way  is  to  do  justly,  love 
mercy,  and  walk  humbly  before  God,  precisely  as 
if  nothing  had  been  said.  If  it  happens,  we  shall 
be  no  worse  off  for  having  slept  o'  nights ;  and  if 
it  does  not  happen,  we  shall  be  a  great  deal  better. 
Let  no  New  England  voice  be  lifted  against  the 
11* 


2">0          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

measure,  for,  apart  from  law  and  loyalty,  dignity 
seems  to  require  that  New  England's  defence  shall 
come  from  other  lips  than  her  own,  as  it  certainly 
does  come  through  all  the  North  and  West,  with 
unequivocal  and  generous  reverberations.  But 
above  all  things,  as  we  value  our  birthright,  and 
the  charge  intrusted  to  us  by  our  fathers,  let  no 
New  England  voice  be  lowered  to  meet  this  new 
found  threat.  Though,  as  an  American,  one  should 
bewail  such  a  catastrophe  in  dust  and  ashes,  as  a 
New  Englander,  he  should  exult.  America  would 
wear  her  decree  of  divorce  forever  branded  on  her 
brow ;  but  New  England  would  inscribe  it  highest 
on  her  banner  of  the  light ;  for  the  separation  would 
not  be  because  of  her  usurpation  of  power,  but  her 
inflexibility  of  principle;. not  for  what  is  bad  in  her, 
but  for  what  is  good.  So  may  she  live  only  so 
long  as  life  and  honor  are  one ;  and  if  die  she  must, 
let  her  go  down  grandly,  like  the  Cumberland, 
firing  her  last  broadside  at  the  foe,  flinging  her 
last  flag  to  the  breeze,  knowing  of  a  surety  that 
the  dead  which  she  shall  slay  at  her  death  will  be 
more  than  they  which  she  slew  in  her  life. 


XXIII. 


INTERRUPTION. 


SAT  down  to  write,  but  through  the 
noonday  air,  calm  and  still  as  midsum 
mer,  though  in  the  heart  of  winter, 
comes  the  boom  of  distant  cannon.  In 
another  latitude  it  might  be  a  tone  of  terror  and 
agony;  but  over  our  quiet  valleys  the  besom 
of  destruction  has  never  swept,  the  voice  of 
carnage  has  not  sounded,  the  "  feverish  lips  "  of 
cannon,  save  in  one  mad  hour,  have  spoken 
only  summons  to  battle  and  shouts  of  victory. 
When,  early  in  the  war,  the  vexed  air  quivered 
with  its  fiery  freight,  it  used  to  raise  high  hopes. 
Eager  eyes  answered  to  eager  lips.  Was  Rich 
mond  taken  ?  Was  Beauregard  defeated  ?  Was 
Davis  captured  ?  Was  the  land  avenged,  and 
peace  restored?  But  we  have  learned  wisdom 
since  then,  and  patience.  Still  the  guns  boom, 
deafening  enough  in  their  places,  no .  doubt,  but 
to  us,  afar  off,  deadened  down  to  a  sturdy  rum- 
bung  ;  and  a  sweeter  sound  mingles  with  the  deep 


252  SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

reverberation.  The  clangor  of  bells  is  softly  heard. 
Beginning  at  the  west  it  ripples  along  to  the  south ; 
one  and  another  take  up  the  joyful  strain,  and 
ring  out  happy  chimes.  So  faint,  so  far,  the  little 
chords  of  melody  give  forth,  as  it  were,  the  echoes 
of  some  ^Eolian  harp  stirred  by  a  light-winged 
zephyr.  Tiny  wavelets  strike  out  from  tiny  cen 
tres  of  sound,  and  all  along  the  southern  horizon 
meet  and  mingle  in  harmonious  confusion,  till  the 
fairy-like  music  steals  into  our  hearts.  The  drum 
beat  adds  its  solemn  undertone,  and  far,  far  be 
yond  that  line  of  southern  hills,  crowned  with  its 
Procession  of  the  Pines,  I  know  there  are  thou 
sands  of  hearts  beating  with  wild  tumult  of  joy, 
thousands  of  hearts  throbbing  with  rapturous  glad 
ness.  For  —  do  you  know  ?  Not  a  child  in  the 
village  street  but  can  tell  you  wherefore  the  village 
bells  are  ringing  so  merrily.  It  is  the  returning 
regiments. 

The  returning  regiments !  How  long  it  is  since 
the  April  morning  that  left  a  stain  on  the  pave 
ments  of  Baltimore  !  How  long  before  us  stretched 
the  three  strange,  terrible  months  —  months  men 
acing  us  with  unknown  perils  and  shadowy  ter 
ror  —  to  which  our  early  volunteers  were  called  ! 
Could  that  excitement,  that  indignation,  that  new 
and  ominous  roar  of  approaching  battle,  endure 
three  months?  Could  we  endure  it?  Bear  for 
three  months  the  anxiety,  the  uncertainty,  the 
raging  thirst  for  victory  and  vengeance,  the 


IN  TERR  UPTION.  253 

"  dull,  deep  pain  and  constant  anguish  of  pa 
tience  ?  "  It  is  three  and  thirty  months  since 
then,  and  still  our  battle-flag  remains  unfurled, 
and  still  an  outraged  nation  waits  to  be  avenged. 

Seventy-five  thousand  men !  Where  could 
the  beloved  land  find  foes  to  withstand  a  host 
like  that?  we  asked,  in  our  simplicity.  They 
laughed  in  Montgomery.  They  had  measured 
their  strength  better  than  we.  They  knew  their 
iniquitous  purpose.  Our  grand  army  was  but  a 
stripling  come  out  to  fight  a  giant  with  smooth 
stones  from  the  brook.  They  knew  themselves, 
but  there  was  a  strength  of  which  they  never 
dreamed.  They  did  not  know  that  our  seventy- 
five  thousand  men  were  but  the  first  rain-drops 
from  the  cloud  not  yet  ripe  for  showers.  The 
prince  of  the  powers  of  darkness  had  marshalled 
his  minions  well,  as  we  presently  learned.  Then 
the  cloud  spread  up  the  sky.  It  gathered  thick, 
and  thundered  loud,  and  the  rent  heavens  rang 
with  the  shout,  the  solid  earth  shook  with  the 
tread  of  ten  hundred  thousand  men. 

And  now  they  have  come  back  to  us.  They 
have  fulfilled  their  high  promise.  They  have  ac 
quitted  themselves  like  men.  They  rushed  to  the 
breach,  when  the  foe  came  in  like  a  flood,  and 
stayed  the  desolation.  There  are  men  who  dare 
to  sneer  at  patriotism,  and  talk  of  the  attractive 
power  of  thirteen  dollars  a  month.  To  such  a 
talker,  one  is  moved  to  say :  "  Your  testimony  is 


254          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

conclusive  as  far  as  it  goes  ;  but  it  goes  no  farther 
than  your  solitary  self.  You  may  know  that  you 
would  give  up  wife,  and  child,  and  life  for  thirteen 
dollars  a  month,  but  you  are  not  authorized  to  say 
that  all  men  would  do  the  same.  As  like  natu 
rally  seeks  like,  it  is  very  possible  that  the  clique 
to  which  you  belong,  and  from  which  you  gener 
alize  your  unworthy  laws,  are  impelled  by  such 
petty  considerations.  But  a  clique  does  not  es 
tablish  laws  for  humanity." 

No  one  supposes  that  men,  in  becoming  soldiers, 
become  angels.  Pay,  pension,  promotion,  of 
course,  have  their  influence,  and  they  are  all  hon 
orable  motives,  —  closely  entwined  with 

"  The  graces  and  the  loves  that  make 
The  music  of  the  march  of  life," 

but  in  the  breasts  of  our  brave  soldiery  there  is 
somewhat  broader,  deeper,  higher  than  these.  He 
is  blind  who  does  not  see  it. 

I  was  reading,  the  other  day,  the  funeral  sermon 
of  a  young  man  of  Michigan,  Major  Noah  Henry 
Ferry,  of  the  Fifth  Michigan  Cavalry.  He  fell  at 
Gettysburg,  swept  away  by  treason's  highest  wave. 
His  is  only  one  of  the  many  names  written  in  "  liv 
ing  light,"  and  for  every  name  we  see,  there  are, 
doubtless,  scores  that  we  see  not.  But  every 
name,  every  record  of  a  hero's  life  and  a  martyr's 
death,  is  as  fresh  and  fair  as  if  his  name  alone 
illumined  our  country's  annals.  In  a  letter  to  his 


INTERRUPTION.  255 

mother,  shortly  before  his  departure  from  Wash 
ington,  Major  Ferry  writes :  "  If  by  the  accident 
of  war  I  should  find  my  end  upon  the  field  .... 
you  will  have  the  comfort  of  knowing  that  I  have, 
by  dying  in  such  a  cause,  not  lived  in  vain ;  and 
that  (I  can  tell  it  to  you)  no  impure  motive  had  a 
voice  in  bringing  me  here;  nor  is  there  in  my 
history  anything  of  which  my  friends  need  feel 
ashamed." 

That  he  was  not  impelled  by  love  of  glory,  or 
any  personal  ambition,  is  constantly  seen.  To  a 
younger  brother,  chafing  under  the  necessity  of 
remaining  at  home,  he  writes,  "  Why,  Ned,  when 
I  read  of  your  work  at  home,  and  hear  you  talk  of 
discontent,  because  you  are  not  doing  more  for 
your  country,  I  feel  guilty  in  staying  here.  You 
are  doing  manifold  more  than  I  am.  Your  place 
cannot  be  vacated  without  being  felt  by  very 
many,  while  mine  would  hardly  be  missed."  In 
another  letter  he  writes  "  If  I  go  to  war,  I  want 
to  fight ;  if  I  go  to  play,  I  want  to  play."  And 
what  says  the  father  of  this  young  soldier,  when 
the  tidings  came  from  Gettysburg  ?  "  Not  one 
son,  but  all,  if  need  be ;  rather  than  that  this  un 
holy  rebellion  triumph.  If  my  country  must  fall, 
welcome  the  annihilation  of  every  temporal  inter 
est  and  the  destruction  of  life  itself:  for  I  do  not 
desire  to  survive  my  country's  ruin."  While  such 
words  are  spoken,  while  such  fire  burns  in  heroic 
hearts,  and  such  dust  mingles  with  the  soil,  who  is 


256          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

he  that  dares  to  sit  by  the  fireside  from  which  he 
has  never  stirred  and  prate  his  malign  insinua 
tions  ?  — 

They  have  come  back  to  us,  but  not  as  they 
went  away.  For  boys  tenderly  reared  and  careful 
ly  watched,  for  men  with  soft  hands  and  sheltered 
lives,  we  have  a  band  of  bronzed  and  scarred,  war 
worn  and  weather-beaten  veterans.  Two  years 
may  have  been  twenty  for  the  sinewy  manliness 
to  which  they  have  grown.  We  hoped  that  on 
their  return  we  should 

"  hear  the  bells  of  cheer 
Ring  peace  and  freedom  in," 

but  it  was  not  to  be.  Their  feet  are  shod  only 
with  the  preparations  of  the  gospel  of  peace  :  still 
the  trumpet  sounds  to  arms,  but  they  are  undis 
mayed.  They  have  come  back  only  for  one 
breathing-space,  and  they  will  rally  yet  again 
around  the  dear  old  flag.  Let  their  home-sojourn 
be  filled  to  the  brim  with  pleasant  things,  and 
their  after-life  crowded  with  pleasant  memories. 
Give,  first  of  all,  thanks  unto  the  Lord,  for  he  is 
good.  Enter  into  his  gates  with  thanksgiving, 
and  into  his  courts  with  praise.  Let  the  voice  of 
social  love  greet  them,  and  the  hand  of  friendship 
clasp  theirs.  O  maidens,  bring  to  them  your 
sweetest  smiles ;  mothers,  unfold  your  deepest 
tenderness;  and  crow  your  lustiest,  round-eyed 
babies,  voicing  a  joy  you  do  not  understand. 
Spread,  blue  and  clear  above  their  heads,  ye 


INTERRUPTION.  257 

•wintry  skies.  Lie  white  and  hard  beneath  their 
feet,  ye  hills  of  snow.  Let  sleigh-bells  jingle  mer 
rily,  let  the  lamp  be  brightly  trimmed,  and  the  red 
firelight  dance.  Let  friends  and  neighbors  meet 
to  give  them  hearty  welcome.  Bring  down  to  the 
spit  the  king  of  the  turkeys,  cram  the  puddings 
with  pulpy  plums.  Marshal  the  pumpkins  and  the 
cranberries,  and  the  spicy,  multifarious  mixtures 
for  all  manner  of  unwholesome  edibles  that  men 
delight  in;  they  can  stand  it  for  a  month,  and 
on  distant  camping-grounds,  when  hard-tack  shall 
have  resumed  its  sway,  it  may  delight  them  to  re 
member  these  things. 

They  have  come  back  to  us,  but  not  all.  The 
still  deadliness  of  malaria  and  "  the  thunder-storm 
of  battle  "  have  made  sad  havoc  here.  "We  have 
but  thinned  and  shattered  ranks  for  the  gallant 
regiments  that  went 

"  Marching  along,  fifty  score  strong, 
Great-hearted  gentlemen." 

They  come  back  tens,  who  went  out  hundreds. 
Their  graves  are  gr^en  in  many  a  valley,  and  the 
breezes  whisper  softly  where  they  lie.  Under  the 
waters  and  above  the  clouds  they  rest  in  dream 
less  slumber.  Some  sleep  among  their  kindred,  in 
the  shade  of  marble  monuments,  and  some  sleep 
just  as  peacefully  whose  sepulchres  no  man  shall 
ever  know.  God  help  the  hearts  whose  wounds 
will  this  day  bleed  afresh. 

The    sounds  have  ceased.     The   cannon's  low 

Q 


258 


SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 


roll  is  hushed,  and  the  bells  are  still.     Now  the 

crowds  are  dispersing,  the  civic  greeting  is  over, 

and  the  doors  of  happy  homes  open,  —  and  close 

again. 

them  with  his  blessing. 


The  angel  of  the  Lord  descend  and  crown 


XXIV. 


ANNO    DOMINI. 


jT  is  right  and  fitting  that  this  nation 
should  cherish  a  peculiar  gratitude 
and  render  especial  thanksgiving  to 
the  Most  High.  Through  all  its  ex 
istence  it  has  rejoiced  in  the  sunshine  of  Divine 
favor ;  but  never  has  that  favor  been  so  benignly 
and  bountifully  bestowed  as  in  these  latter  days. 
For  the  unexampled  material  prosperity  which  has 
waited  upon  our  steps,  —  for  blessings  in  city  and 
'field,  in  basket  and  store,  in  all  that  we  have  set 
our  hand  unto,  it  is  meet  that  we  should  render 
thanks  to  the  Good  Giver  ;  but  for  the  especial 
blessings  of  these  last  four  years,  —  for  the  sudden 
uprising  of  manhoo,d, — for  the  great  revival  of  jus 
tice,  and  truth,  and  love,  without  which  material 
prosperity  is  but  a  second  death,  —  for  the  wisdom 
to  do,  the  courage  to  dare,  the  patience  to  endure, 
and  the  godlike  strength  to  sacrifice  all  hi  a  right 
eous  cause,  let  us  give  thanks  ;  for  in  these  con 
sists  a  people's  life. 


200          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

To  every  nation  there  comes  an  hour  whereon 
hang  trembling  the  issues  of  its  fate.  Has  it  vital 
ity  to  withstand  the  shock  of  conflict  and  the  tur 
moil  of  surprise  ?  Will  it  slowly  gather  itself  up 
for  victorious  onset?  or  will  it  sink  unresisting  into 
darkness  and  the  grave  ? 

To  this  nation,  as  to  all,  the  question  came : 
Ease  or  honor,  death  or  life?  Subtle  and  sav 
age,  with  a  bribe  in  his  hand,  and  a  threat  on  his 
tongue,  the  tempter  stood.  Let  it  be  remembered 
with  lasting  gratitude  that  there  was  neither  pause 
nor  parley  when  once  his  purpose  was  revealed. 
The  answer  came, — 'the  voice  of  millions  like  the 
voice  of  one.  From  city  and  village,  from  moun 
tain  and  prairie,  from  the  granite  coast  of  the  At 
lantic  to  the  golden  gate  of  the  Pacific,  the  answer 
came.  It  roared  from  a  thousand  cannon,  it  flashed 
from  a  million  muskets.  The  sudden  gleam  of 
uplifted  swords  revealed  it,  the  quiver  of  bristling 
bayonets  wrote  it  in  blood.  A  knell  to  the  despot, 
a  paean  to  the  slave,  it  thundered  round  the  world. 

Then  the  thing  which  we  had  greatly  feared 
came  upon  us,  and  that  spectre  which  we  had 
been  afraid  of  came  unto  us,  and,  behold,  length 
of  days  was  in  its  right  hand,  and  in  its  left  hand 
riches  and  honor.  What  the  lion-hearted  warrior 
of  England  was  to  the  children  of  the  Saracens, 
that  had  the  gaunt  mystery  of  Secession  been  to 
the  little  ones  of  this  generation,  an  evening  phan 
tom  and  a  morning  fear,  at  the  mere  mention  of 


ANNO  DOMINI.  261 

whose  name  many  had  been  but  too  ready  to  fall 
at  the  feet  of  opposition  and  cry  imploringly, 
"  Take  any  form  but  that !  "  The  phantom  ap 
proached,  put  off  its  shadowy  outlines,  assumed  a 
definite  purpose,  loomed  up  in  horrid  proportions, 
—  to  come  to  perpetual  end.  In  its  actual  pres 
ence  all  fear  vanished.  The  contest  waxed  hot, 
but  it  wanes  forever.  Shadow  and  substance  drag 
slowly  down  their  bloody  path  to  disappear  in  eter 
nal  infamy.  The  war  rolls  on  to  its  close ;  and 
when  it  closes,  the  foul  blot  of  secession  stains 
our  historic  page  no  more.  Another  book  shall 
be  opened. 

Remembering  all  the  way  which  these  battling 
years  have  led  us,  we  can  only  say,  "It  is  the 
Lord's  doing,  and  it  is  marvellous  in  our  eyes." 
Who  dreamed  of  the  grand,  stately  patience,  the 
heroic  strength,  that  lay  dormant  in  the  hearts  of 
this  impulsive,  mercurial  people  ?  It  was  always 
capable  of  magnanimity.  Who  suspected  its 
sublime  self-poise  ?  Rioting  in  a  reckless,  child 
ish  freedom,  who  would  have  dared  to  prophesy 
that  calm,  clear  foresight  by  which  it  voluntarily 
assumed  the  yoke,  merged  its  strong  individual 
wills  in  one  central  controlling  will,  and  bent  with 
haughty  humility  to  every  restraint  that  looked  to 
the  rescue  of  its  endangered  liberty?  The  can 
non  that  smote  the  walls  of  a  Sumter  did  a  wild 
work.  Its  voice  of  insult  and  of  sacrilege  roused 
the  fire  of  a  blood  too  brave  to  know  its  courage, 


202          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

too  proud  to  boast  its  source.  All  the  heroism  in 
herited  from  an  honored  ancestry,  all  the  inborn 
wrath  of  justice  against  iniquity,  all  that  was  true 
to  truth  sprang  up  instinctively  to  wrest  our  Holy 
Land  from  the  clutch  of  its  worse  than  infideK 

But  that  was  not  the  final  test.  The  final  test 
came  afterwards.  The  passion  of  indignation 
bunied  out  as  passion  must.  The  war  that  had 
been  welcomed  as  a  relief  bore  down  upon  the 
land  with  an  ever-increasing  weight,  became  an 
ever-darkening  shadow.  Its  romance  and  poetry 
did  not  fade,  but  their  colors  were  lost  under 
the  sable  hues  of  reality.  The  cloud  hung  over 
every  hamlet;  it  darkened  every  doorway.  Even 
success  must  have  been  accompanied  with  sharp 
est  sorrow  ;  and  we  had  not  success  to  soften 
sorrow.  Disaster  followed  close  upon  delay,  and 
delay  upon  disaster,  and  still  the  nation's  heart 
was  strong.  The  cloud  became  a  pall,  but  there 
was  no  faltering.  Men  said  to  one  another, 
anxiously :  "  This  cannot  last.  We  must  have 
victory.  The  people  will  not  stand  these  delays. 
The  summer  must  achieve  results,  or  all  is  lost." 
The  summer  came  and  went,  results  were  not 
achieved,  and  still  the  patient  country  waited,  — 
waited  not  supinely,  not  indifferently,  but  with  a 
still  determination,  with  a  painful  longing,  with  an 
earnest  endeavor,  less  demonstrative,  but  no  less 
definite,  than  that  which  Sumter  roused.  Mo 
ments  of  sadness,  of  gloom,  of  bitter  disappoint- 


ANNO   DOMINI.  263 

ment  and  deep  indignation,  there  have  been ; 
but  never  from  the  first  moment  of  the  Rebel 
lion  to  this  its  dying  hour  has  there  been  a 
time  when  the  purpose  of  the  people  to  crush 
out  treason  and  save  the  nation  has  for  a  single 
instant  wavered.  And  never  has  their  power 
lagged  behind  their  purpose.  Never  have  they 
withheld  men  or  money,  but  always  they  have 
pressed  on,  more  eager,  more  generous,  more  for 
ward  to  give  than  their  leaders  have  been  to  ask. 
Truly,  it  is  not  in  man  that  walketh  thus  to  direct 
his  steps ! 

And  side  by  side,  with  no  unequal  step,  the 
great  charities  have  attended  the  great  conflict. 
Out  of  the  strong  has  come  forth  sweetness. 
From  the  helmeted  brow  of  War  has  sprung  a 
fairer  than  Minerva,  panoplied  not  for  battle,  but 
for  the  tenderest  ministrations  of  Peace.  Wher 
ever  the  red  hand  of  War  has  been  raised  to 
strike,  there  the  white  hand  of  Pity  has  been 
stretched  forth  to  solace.  Wherever  else  there 
may  have  been  division,  here  there  has  been  no 
division.  Love,  the  essence  of  Christianity,  self- 
sacrifice,  the  life  of  God,  have  forgotten  their 
names,  have  left  the  beaten  ways,  have  embodied 
themselves  in  institutions,  and  have  lifted  the 
whole  nation  to  the  heights  of  a  divine  beneficence. 
Old  and  young,  rich  and  poor,  bond  and  free, 
have  joined  in  offering  an  offering  to  the  Lord  in 
the  persons  of  his  wounded  brethren.  The  wo- 


264          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

man  that  was  tender  and  very  delicate  has  brought 
her  finest  handiwork  ;  the  slave,  whose  just  un- 
manacled  hands  were  hardly  yet  deft  enough  to 
fashion  a  freedman's  device,  has  proffered  his  pain 
ful  hoards  ;  the  criminal  in  his  cell  has  felt  the 
mysterious  brotherhood  stirring  in  his  heart,  and 
has  pressed  his  skill  and  cunning  into  the  service 
of  his  countrymen.  Hands  trembling  with  age 
have  steadied  themselves  to  new  effort ;  little 
fingers  that  had  hardly  learned  their  uses  have 
bent  with  unwonted  patience  to  the  novelty  of 
tasks.  The  fashion  and  elegance  of  cities,  the 
thrift  and  industry  of  villages,  have  combined 
to  relieve  the  suffering  and  comfort  the  sor 
rowful.  Science  has  wrought  her  mysteries,  art 
has  spread  her  beauties,  and  learning  and  elo 
quence  and  poetry  have  lavished  their  free-will 
offerings.  The  ancient  blood  of  Massachusetts 
and  the  youthful  vigor  of  California  have  throbbed 
high  with  one  desire  to  give  deserved  meed  to 
those  heroic  men  who  wear  their  badge  of  honor 
in  scarred  brow  and  maimed  limb.  The  wonders 
of  the  Old  World,  the  treasures  of  tropical  seas, 
the  boundless  wealth  of  our  own  fertile  inland,  all 
that  the  present  has  of  marvellous,  all  that  the 
past  has  bequeathed  most  precious,  —  all  has  been 
poured  into  the  lap  of  this  sweet  charity,  and 
blesseth  alike  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes. 
It  is  the  old  convocation  of  the  Jews,  when  they 
brought  the  Lord's  offering  to  the  work  of  the  tab- 


ANNO  DOMINI.  265 

ernacle  :  "  And  they  came,  both  men  and  women, 
and  brought  bracelets,  .and  ear-rings,  and  rings, 
and  tablets,  all  jewels  of  gold;  and  every  man 
that  offered  offered  an  offering  of  gold  unto  the 
Lord.  And  every  man  with  whom  was  found 
blue  and  purple  and  scarlet  and  fine  linen  and 
goats'  hair  and  red  skins  of  rams  and  badgers' 

o  ™ 

skins  brought  them.      And   all  the  women  that 

O 

were  wise-hearted  did  spin  with  their  hands,  and 
brought  that  which  they  had  spun,  both  of  blue 
and  of  purple  and  of  scarlet  and  of  fine  linen. 
And  the  rulers  brought  onyx-stone's,  and  stones 
to  be  set,  and  spice,  and  oil  for  the  light.  The 
children  of  Israel  brought  a  willing  offering  unto 
the  Lord,  every  man  and  woman." 

Truly  not  the  least  of  the  compensations  of  this 
war  is  the  new  spirit  which  it  has  set  astir  in  hu 
man  life,  this  acknowledged  brotherhood  which 
makes  all  things  common,  which  moves  health 
and  wealth  and  leisure  and  learning  to  brave  the 
dangers  of  the  battle-field  and  the  horrors  of  the 
hospital  for  the  comfort  of  its  needy  comrade. 
And  inasmuch  as  he  who  hath  done  it  unto  one 
of  the  least  of  these  his  brethren  has  done  it  unto 
the  Master,  is  not  this,  in  very  deed  and  truth, 
Anno  Domini,  the  year  of  our  Lord  ? 

And  let  all  devout  hearts  render  praises  to  God 

for  the  hope  we  are  enabled  to  cherish  that  He 

wiU  speedily  save  this  people  from  their  national 

sin.     From   the   days    of    our   fathers,    the   land 

12 


266          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

groaned  under  its  weight  of  woe  and  crime  ;  but 
none  saw  from  what  quarter  deliverance  should 
come.  Apostles  and  prophets  arose  in  North  and 
South,  prophesying  the  wrath  of  God  against  a 
nation  that  dared  to  hold  its  great  truth  of  human 
brotherhood  in  unrighteousness,  and  the  smile  of 
God  only  on  him  who  should  do  justly  and  love 
mercy  and  walk  humbly  before  Him  ;  but  they 
died  in  faith,  not  having  obtained  the  promises. 
That  faith  in  God,  and  consequently  in  the  ulti 
mate  triumph  of  right  over  wrong,  never  failed  ; 
but  few,  even  of  the  most  sanguine,  dared  to  hope 
that  their  eyes  should  see  the  salvation  of  the 
Lord.  Upright  men  spent  their  lives  in  unyield 
ing  and  indignant  protest,  not  so  much  for  any 
immediate  result  as  because  they  could  do  no 
otherwise,  —  because  the  constant  violation  of 
sacred  right,  the  constant  defilement  and  degra 
dation  of  country,  wrought  so  fiercely  and  pain 
fully  in  their  hearts  that  they  could  not  hold  their 
peace.  Though  they  expected  no  sudden  reform, 
they  beh'eved  in  the  indestructibility  of  truth,  and 
knew,  therefore,  that  their  word  should  not  return 
unto  them  void,  but  waited  for  some  far  future 
day  when  happier  harvesters  should  come  bringing 
their  sheaves  with  them.  How  looks  the  promise 
now  ?  A  beneficent  Providence  has  outstripped 
our  laggard  hopes.  The  work  which  we  had  so 
summarily  given  over  to  the  wiser  generations  of 
the  future  is  rapidly  approaching  completion  be- 


ANNO  DOMINI.  267 

neath  the  strokes  of  a  few  sharp,  short  years  of 
our  own.  Slavery,  which  was  apologized  for  by 
the  South,  tolerated  by  the  North,  half  recognized 
as  an  evil,  half  accepted  as  a  compromise,  but  with 
every  conscientious  concession  and  every  cowardly 
expedient  sinking  ever  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  nation's  life,  stands  forth  at  last  in  its  real 
character,  and  meets  its  righteous  doom.  Public 
opinion,  rapidly  sublimed  in  the  white  heat  of  this 
fierce  war,  is  everywhere  crystallizing.  Men  are 
learning  to  know  precisely  what  they  believe,  and, 
knowing,  they  dare  maintain.  There  is  no  more 
speaking  with  bated  breath,  no  more  counselling 
of  forbearance  and  non-intervention.  It  is  no 
longer  a  chosen  few  who  dare  openly  to  denounce 
the  sum  of  all  villanies  ;  but  loud  and  long  and 
deep  goes  up  the  execration  of  a  people,  —  the 
tenfold  hate  and  horror  of  men  who  have  seen  the 
foul  fiend's  work,  who  have  felt  his  fangs  fastened 
in  their  own  flesh,  his  poison  working  in  their 
own  hearts'  blood.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of 
thinking  men  have  gone  down  into  his  loathsome 
prison-house,  have  looked  upon  his  obscene  fea 
tures,  have  grappled,  shuddering,  with  his  slimy 
strength  ;  and  thousands  of  thousands,  watching 
them  from  far-off  Northern  homes,  have  felt  the 
chill  that  crept  through  their  souls.  The  ab 
horrence  of  slavery  that  fills  the  heart  of  this 
people  it  is  impossible  for  language  to  exagger 
ate.  It  is  so  strong,  so  wide-spread,  so  uncom- 


268          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

promising,  so  fixed  in  its  determination  to  de 
stroy,  root  and  branch,  the  accursed  thing,  that 
even  the  forces  of  evil  and  self-seeking,  awed  and 
overpowered,  are  swept  into  the  line  of  its  pro 
cession.  Good  men  and  bad  men,  lovers  of  coun 
try  and  lovers  only  of  lucre,  men  who  will  fight 
to  the  death  for  a  grand  idea  and  men  who  fight 
only  for  some  low  ambition,  worshippers  of  God 
and  worshippers  of  Mammon,  are  alike  putting 
their  hands  to  the  plough  which  is  to  overturn 
and  overturn  till  the  ancient  evil  is  uprooted. 
The  very  father  of  lies  is,  perforce,  become  the 
servant  of  truth.  That  old  enemy  which  is  the 
Devil,  the  malignant  messenger  of  all  evil,  finds 
himself,  —  somewhat  amazed  and  enraged,  we 
must  believe,  at  his  unexpected  situation,  —  with 
all  his  executive  ability  undiminished,  all  his 
spiritual  strength  unimpaired,  harnessed  to  the 
chariot  of  human  freedom  and  human  progress, 
and  working  in  his  own  despite  the  beneficent 
will  of  God. 

Unspeakably  cheering,  both  as  a  sign  of  the 
sincerity  of  our  leaders  and  as  a  pledge  of  what 
the  nation  means  to  do  when  its  hands  are 
free,  are  the  little  Christian  colonies  planted  in 
the  rear  of  our  victorious  armies.  In  the  heart 
of  woods  are  often  seen  large  tracts  of  open 
country  gay  with  a  brilliant  purple  bloom  which 
the  people  call  "  fire-weed,"  because  it  springs 
up  on  spots  that  have  been  stripped  by  fire.  So, 


ANNO  DOMINI.  269 

where  the  old  plantations  of  sloth  and  servitude 
have  been  consumed  by  the  desolating  flames  of 
war,  spring  up  the  tender  growths  of  Christian 
civilization.  The  filthy  hovel  is  replaced  by  the 
decent  cottage.  The  squalor  of  slavery  is  succeed 
ed  by  the  little  adornments  of  ownership.  The 
thrift  of  self-possession  supplants  the  recklessness 
of  irresponsibility.  For  the  slave-pen  we  have 
the  school-house.  Where  the  lash  labored  to  re 
duce  men  to  the  level  of  brutes,  the  Bible  leads 
them  up  to  the  heights  of  angels.  We  are  as  yet 
but  in  the  beginning,  but  we  have  begun  right. 
With  his  staff  the  slave  passes  over  the  Jordan  of 
his  deliverance ;  but  through  the  manly  nurture 
and  Christian  training  which  we  owe  him,  and 
which  we  shall  pay,  he  shall  become  two  bands. 
The  people  did  not  set  themselves  to  combat  preju 
dices  with  words  alone,  when  the  time  was  ripe  for 
deeds ;  but  while  the  Government  was  yet  hesitat 
ing  whether  to  put  the  musket  into  his  hand  for 
war,  Christian  men  and  women  hastened  to  give 
him  the  primer  for  peace.  Not  waiting  for  legis 
lative  enactments,  they  took  the  freedman  as  he 
came  all  panting  from  the  house  of  bondage ;  they 
ministered  to  his  wants,  strengthened  his  heart, 
and  set  him  rejoicing  on  his  way  to  manhood. 
The  Proclamation  of  Emancipation  may  or  may 
not  be  revoked ;  but  whom  knowledge  has  made  a 
man,  and  discipline  a  soldier,  no  edict  can  make 
again  a  slave. 


270          SKIRMISHES  AXD   SKETCHES. 

While  the  people  have  been  working  in  their 
individual  capacity  to  right  the  wrongs  of  genera 
tions,  our  constituted  authorities  have  been  mov 
ing  on  steadfastly  to  the  same  end.  Military 
necessity  has  emancipated  thousands  of  slaves,  and 
civil  power  has  pressed  ever  nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  abolition  of  slavery.  In  all  the  confusion 
of  war,  the  trumpet-tones  of  justice  have  rung 
through  our  national  halls  with  no  uncertain 
sound.  With  a  pertinacity  most  exasperating  to 
tyrants  and  infidels,  but  most  welcome  to  the 
friends  of  human  rights,  Northern  Senators  and 
Representatives  have  presented  the  claims  of  the 
African  race.  With  many  a  momentary  recession, 
the  tide  has  swept  irresistibly  onward.  Hopes 
have  been  baffled  only  to  be  strengthened.  Meas 
ures  have  been  rejected  only  to  be  restored.  De 
feat  has  been  accepted  but  as  the  stepping-stone  to 
new  endeavor.  Cautiously,  warily,  Freedom  has 
lain  in  wait  to  rescue  her  wronged  children.  Her 
watchful  eyes  have  fastened  upon  every  weakness 
in  her  foe:  her  ready  hand  has  been  upraised 
wherever  there  was  a  chance  to  strike.  Quietly, 
almost  unheard  amid  the  loud-resounding  clash  of 
arms,  her  decrees  have  gone  forth,  instinct  with 
the  enfranchisement  of  a  race.  The  war  began 
with  old  customs  and  prejudices  under  full  head 
way,  but  the  new  necessities  soon  met  them  with 
fierce  collision.  The  first  shock  was  felt  when  the 
escaping  slaves  of  Rebel  masters  were  pronounced 


ANNO  DOMINI.  271 

free,  and  our  soldiers  were  forbidden  to  return 
them.  Then  the  blows  came  fast  and  furious,  and 
the  whole  edifice,  reared  on  that  crumbling  corner 
stone  of  Slavery,  reeled  through  all  its  heaven- 
defying  heights.  The  gates  of  Liberty  opened  to 
the  slave,  on  golden  hinges  turning.  The  voice 
of  promise  rang  through  Rebel  encampments,  and 
penetrated  to  the  very  fastnesses  of  Rebellion. 
The  ranks  of  the  army  called  the  freedman  to  the 
rescue  of  his  race.  The  courts  of  justice  received 
him  in  witness  of  his  manhood.  Before  every 
foreign  power  he  was  acknowledged  as  a  citizen 
of  his  country,  and  as  entitled  to  her  protection. 
The  capital  of  our  nation  was  purged  of  the  foul 
stain  that  dishonored  her  in  the  eyes  of  the  na 
tions,  and  that  gave  the  lie  direct  to  our  most 
solemn  Declaration.  The  fugitive-slave  acts  that 
disfigured  our  statute-book  were  blotted  out,  and 
fugitive-slave-stealer  acts  filled  their  places.  The 
seal  of  freedom,  immediate,  unconditional,  and 
perpetual,  was  set  upon  the  broad  outlying  lands 
of  the  Republic,  and  then  came  that  crowning 
act  which  in  its  results  shall  make  slavery  for 
ever  impossible,  and  liberty  the  one  supreme, 
unchangeable  law  in  every  part  of  our  domains. 

What  we  have  done  is  an  earnest  of  what  we 
mean  to  do.  After  nearly  four  years  of  war,  and 
war  on  such  a  scale  as  the  world  has  never  before 
seen,  the  people  have  once  more,  and  in  terms 
too  emphatic  to  be  misunderstood,  proclaimed 


272          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

their  undying  purpose.  With  a  unanimity  rarely 
equalled,  a  people  that  had  fought  seven  years 
against  a  tax  of  threepence  on  the  pound,  and  that 
was  rapidly  advancing  to  the  front  rank  of  nations 
through  the  victories  of  peace,  —  a  people  jealous 
of  its  liberties  and  proud  of  its  prosperity, —  has  re- 
elected  to  the  chief  magistracy  a  man  under  whose 
administration  burdensome  taxes  have  been  levied, 
immense  armies  marshalled,  imperative  drafts  or 
dered,  and  fearful  sufferings  endured.  They  have 
done  this  because,  in  spite  of  possible  mistakes  and 
short-comings,  they  have  seen  his  grasp  ever  tight 
ening  around  the  throat  of  Slavery,  his  weapons 
ever  seeking  the  vital  point  of  the  Rebellion. 
They  have  beheld  him  standing  always  at  his  post, 
calm  in  the  midst  of  peril,  hopeful  when  all  was 
dark,  patient  under  every  obloquy,  courteous  to 
his  bitterest  foes,  conciliatory  where  conciliation 
was  possible,  inflexible  where  to  yield  was  dis 
honor.  Never  have  the  passions  of  civil  war  be 
trayed  him  into  cruelty  or  hurried  him  into  re 
venge  ;  nor  has  any  hope  of  personal  benefit  or 
any  fear  of  personal  detriment  stayed  him  when 
occasion  beckoned.  If  he  has  erred,  it  has  been 
on  the  side  of  leniency^  If  he  has  hesitated,  it 
has  been  to  assure  himself  of  the  right.  Where 
there  was  censure,  he  claimed  it  for  himself; 
where  there  was  praise,  he  has  lavished  it  on  his 
subordinates.  The  strong  he  has  braved,  and  the 
weak  sheltered.  He  has  rejected  the  counsels  of 


ANNO  DOMINI.  273 

his  friends  when  they  were  inspired  by  partisan 
ship,  and  adopted  the  suggestions  of  opponents 
when  they  were  founded  on  wisdom.  His  ear  has 
always  been  open  to  the  people's  voice,  yet  he  has 
never  suffered  himself  to  be  blindly  driven  by  the 
storm  of  popular  fury.  He  has  consulted  public 
opinion,  as  the  public  servant  should ;  but  he  has 
not  pandered  to  public  prejudice,  as  only  dema 
gogues  do.  Not  weakly  impatient  to  secure  the 
approval  of  the  country,  he  has  not  scorned  to  ex 
plain  his  measures  to  the  understanding  of  the 
common  people.  Never  bewildered  by  the  solici 
tations  of  party,  nor  terrified  by  the  menace  of 
opposition,  he  has  controlled  with  moderation,  and 
yielded  with  dignity,  as  the  exigencies  of  the  time 
demanded.  Entering  upon  office  with  his  full 
share  of  the  common  incredulity,  perceiving  no 
more  than  his  fellow-citizens  the  magnitude  of  the 
crisis,  he  has  steadily  risen  to  the  height  of  the 
great  argument.  No  suspicion  of  self-seeking 
stains  his  fair  fame ;  but  ever  mindful  of  his 
solemn  oath,  he  seeks  with  clean  hands  and  a  pure 
heart  the  welfare  of  the  whole  country.  Future 
generations  alone  can  do  justice  to  his  ability;  his 
integrity  is  firmly  established  in  the  convictions  of 
the  present  age.  His  reward  is  with  him,  though 
his  work  lies  still  before  him. 

Only  less  significant  than  the  fact  is  the  manner 
of  his  re-election.  All  sections  of  a  continental 
country,  with  interests  as  diverse  as  latitude  and 

12*  B 


274          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

longitude  can  make  them,  united  to  secure,  not 
any  man's  continuance  in  power,  but  the  rule  of 
law.  The  East  called  with  her  thousands,  and  the 
West  answered  with  her  tens  of  thousands.  Balti 
more  that  day  washed  out  the  blood-stains  from 
her  pavement,  and  free  Maryland  girded  herself 
for  a  new  career.  Men  who  had  voted  for  Wash- 
.ington  came  forward  with  the  snows  of  a  hundred 
winters  on  their  brows,  and  amid  the  silence  and 
tears  of  assembled  throngs  deposited  their  ballot 
for  Abraham  Lincoln.  Daughters  led  their  infirm 
fathers  to  the  polls  to  be  sure  that  no  deception 
should  mock  their  failing  sight.  Armless  men 
dropped  their  votes  from  between  their  teeth. 
Sick  men  and  wounded  men,  wounded  on  the 
battle-fields  of  their  country,  were  borne  on  lit 
ters  to  give  their  dying  testimony  to  the  righteous 
cause.  Dilettanteism,  that  would  not  soil  its  dainty 
hands  with  politics,  dared  no  longer  stand  aloof, 
but  gave  its  voice  for  national  honor  and  national 
existence.  Old  party  ties  snapped  asunder,  and 
local  prejudices  shrivelled  in  the  fire  of  newly-kin 
dled  patriotism.  Turbulence  and  violence,  awed 
by  the  supreme  majesty  of  a  resolute  nation,  slunk 
away  and  hid  their  shame  from  the  indignant  day. 
Calmly,  in  the  midst  of  raging  war,  in  despite  of 
threats  and  cajolery,  with  a  lofty,  unspoken  con 
tempt  for  those  false  men  who  would  urge  to 
anarchy  and  infamy,  this  great  people  went  up 
to  the  ballot-box,  and  gave  in  its  adhesion  to  civil 


ANNO  DOMINI.  275 

liberty  and  universal  freedom.  And  as  the  good 
tidings  of  great  joy  flashed  over  the  wires  from 
every  quarter,  men  recognized  the  finger  of  God, 
and,  laying  aside  all  lower  exultation,  gathered  in 
the  public  places,  and,  standing  reverently  with 
uncovered  heads,  poured  forth  their  rapturous 
thanksgiving  in  that  sublime  doxology  which  has 
voiced  for  centuries  the  adoration  of  the  human 
soul :  — 

"  Praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings  flow, 
Praise  Him,  all  creatures  here  below, 
Praise  Him  above,  ye  heavenly  host, 
Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost !  " 

So  our  country  to  the  world  gives  greeting. 
So  a  free  people  meets  and  masters  the  obstacles 
that  bar  its  progress.  So  this  young  republic 
speaks  warning  to  the  old  despotisms,  ancf  hope 
to  the  struggling  peoples.  Thus  with  the  sword 
she  seeks  peace  under  liberty.  Striking  off  the 
shackles  that  fettered  her  limbs,  emerging  from 
the  thick  of  her  deadly  conflict,  with  many  a  dint 
on  her  armor,  but  with  no  shame  on  her  brow,  she 
starts  on  her  victorious  career,  and  bids  the  suffer 
ing  nations  take  heart.  With  the  old  lie  torn  from 
her  banner,  the  old  life  shall  come  back  to  her 
symbols.  Her  children  shall  no  longer  blush  at 
the  taunts  of  foreign  tyrannies,  but  shall  boldly 
proclaim  her  to  be  indeed  the  land  of  the  free, 
as  she  has  always  been  the  home  of  the  brave. 
Men's  minds  shall  no  longer  be  confused  by  dis- 


276          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 
tinctions  between  higher  and  lower  law,   to  the 

O 

infinite  detriment  of  moral  character,  but  all  her 
laws  shall  be  emanations  from  the  infinite  source 
of  justice.  Marshalling  thus  all  her  forces  on  the 
Lord's  side,  she  may  inscribe,  without  mockery, 
on  her  silver  and  gold,  "  In  God  we  trust."  She 
may  hope  for  purity  in  her  homes,  and  honesty  in 
her  councils.  She  may  see  her  growing  grandeur 
without  misgiving,  knowing  that  it  comes  not  by 
earthly  might  or  power,  but  by  the  Spirit  of  the 
Lord  of  Hosts ;  and  the  only  voice  of  her  victory, 
the  song  of  her  thanksgiving,  and  her  watchword 
to  the  nations  shall  be,  "  Glory  to  God  in  the  high 
est  ;  and  on  earth  peace,  good- will  toward  men." 


XXV. 

A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PATHS. 

HE  earliest  known  inhabitants  of  Great 
Britain  were    the    Britons,   or  Celts. 
The  literature  which  they  left  is  com 
prised  in  a  few  words,  chiefly  names 
of  lakes,  rivers,  and  mountains. 

About  55  B.  C.,  the  Romans,  under  Julius 
Caesar,  invaded  and  occupied  England.  They 
preserved  their  own  nationality,  and  did  not  coa 
lesce  with  the  Britons.  They  built  excellent  mili 
tary  roads,  —  still  represented  by  the  chief  roads 
of  England,  —  and  substantial  military  stations, 
where  stand  now  some  of  the  most  important 
towns.  They  also  left  a  few  names  and  termina 
tions  of  names.  . 

About  449  A.  D.,  the  Angles  and  the  Saxons, 
with  other  Gothic  tribes  from  Central  Northern 
Europe,  now  Germany,  took  possession  of  England 
in  what,  if  they  were  not  our  ancestors,  we  should 
call  a  decidedly  piratical  manner.  But  as  they 
gave  up  their  piratical  craft  after  they  had  landed, 


278          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

and  took  kindly  to  what  civilization  the  Romans 
had  left  in  Britain,  let  bygones  be  bygones.  The 
Romans,  and  for  the  greater  part  the  Britons,  dis 
appeared  ;  the  Angles,  who  gave  her  name  to 
England,  the  Saxons,  and  perhaps  the  Scandina 
vians  or  Danes,  intermingled,  are  generally  con 
sidered  to  be  the  chief  founders  of  the  present 
English  nation,  although  its  early  history  is  in 
volved  in  obscurity. 

The  conversion  of  the  islanders  to  Christianity 
had  been  attempted  and  professedly  accomplished, 
in  the  first  century ;  but  we  find  Augustine  begin 
ning  at  the  beginning  again,  in  the  sixth  or  seventh 
century.  Literature  advanced  hand  in  hand  with 
Christianity,  but  it  was  chiefly  in  possession  of  the 
clergy,  and  written  in  the  Latin  language.  The 
Anglo-Saxon  was  not  supposed  to  be  dignified 
enough  for  writing.  The  "  Venerable  Bede " 
translated  a  part  of  the  Bible  into  Anglo-Saxon, 
and  wrote  a  valuable  Ecclesiastical  History  of  Eng 
land.  He,  with  Alcuin,  his  pupil,  the  friend  and 
tutor  of  Charlemagne,  Aldhelm,  Johannes  Erigena, 
and  others,  less  distinguished,  wrote  Commentaries 
on  the  Bible,  Homilies,  Lives  of  the  Saints,  trea 
tises  on  Grammar,  Music,  Orthography,  the  Body 
and  Blood  of  our  Lord,  and  other  themes  little 
known  to  modern  readers. 

A  few  Anglo-Saxon  poems  remain  to  us,  —  the 
most  interesting  of  which  is  a  narrative  poem  by 
Caedmon,  from  which  Milton  is  supposed  to  have 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PA  THS.        279 

borrowed  some  of  the  ideas  of  "  Paradise  Lost." 
Literature  received  inestimable  advantages  from 
the  patronage  and  active  exertions  of  King  Alfred 
the  Great,  who  lived  in  the  ninth  century.  Suffer 
ing  constantly  from  painful  disease,  he  wrote  books 
of  his  own,  translated  those  of  others,  encouraged 
literary  men,  fought  his  country's  battles,  and  left, 
as  he  desired,  to  the  men  that  lived  after  him,  his 
remembrance  in  good  works. 

In  1066,  England  was  conquered  again  by  the 
Normans.  Norman-speech  (French)  affected  the 
language  somewhat,  but  the  English  of  to-day  is, 
in  its  structure,  Saxon.  The  Normans  held  them 
selves  a  superior  race  to  the  Saxons,  and  made 
French  the  fashionable  language.  But  if  the  Nor 
mans  were  proud,  the  Saxons  were  steadfast,  as 
they  generally  are,  and  finally  carried  their  point, 
as  they  generally  do.  The  English  aristocracy 
traces  its  descent  chiefly  from  the  Normans,  but 
English  literature  has  a  Saxon  framework.  The 
twelfth  century  devoted  itself  mostly  to  the  clas 
sics,  and  may  be  summarily  dismissed.  The  thir 
teenth  gave  to  Englishmen  and  Americans  the 
Great  Charter  of  their  liberties.  The  Gesta  Ro- 
manorum,  a  motley  collection  of  fables,  legends, 
parables,  and  anecdotes,  written  in  Latin,  came  in 
to  somewhat  general  circulation  at  this  time,  par 
ticularly  among  the  monks.  Shakespeare,  Parnell, 
and  others,  owe  to  the  Gesta  sundry  of  their 
plots  and  incidents.  The  Fabliaux,  and  Chivalrous 


280          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

Romances,  wherein  figure  King  Arthur  and  his 
Knights  of  the  Round  Table,  Sir  Lancelot,  Sir 
Galahad,  and  the  Holy  Grail,  were  translated  into 
English  and  England,  during  this  century.  Some 
of  them  are  supposed  to  have  originated  in  Eng 
land,  but  to  have  been  written  in  French  to  give 
them  the  court  stamp,  and  insure  their  reception 
by  "  the  best  society."  One  of  them,  "  Havelok," 
is  the  story  of  the  orphan  child  of  a  Danish  king, 
whose  faithless  guardian  sets  him  adrift  on  the  open 
sea.  He  drifts  to  some  purpose,  however,  as  he  is 
finally  picked  up  on  the  eastern  coast  of  England, 
by  a  fisherman  named  Grim.  After  he  is  grown 
up,  the  wicked  guardians  of  a  beautiful  princess, 
supposing  him  to  be  nothing  but  a  fisherman,  force 
her  to  marry  him,  that  she  may  become  nothing 
but  a  fisherman's  wife,  and  they  obtain  her  king 
dom.  After  the  marriage,  Havelok  informs  her 
that  she  has  not  made  so  bad  a  match  after  all, 
recovers  both  kingdoms  by  battle,  and  lives  hap 
pily  ever  after ;  which  was  doubtless  very  satisfac 
tory  to  them,  but  not  so  interesting  to  us  as  the 
fact  that  General  Havelock  of  the  Sepoy  rebellion 
immortality  descended  in  a  direct  line  from  this 
valiant  soldier,  and  the  white  linen  things  which 
our  soldiers  wear  on  their  heads,  to  do  the  work 
which  their  hats  ought  to  do,  descended  from 
him.  If  any  one  does  not  believe  this  story,  he 
can  go  to  England  and  visit  the  very  town  Grims- 
by,  or  he  can  go  to  Washington  and  see  the  sol 
diers  under  their  Havelocks. 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PATHS.        281 

The  fourteenth  century  gave  us  a  foretaste  of 
the  Reformation  in  John  Wycliffe.  He  is  known 
through  the  boldness  with  which,  being  a  priest,  he 
attacked  priestly  abuses  and  Papal  supremacy,  as 
well  as  through  his  literary  works.  He  iaveigha 
against  the  "  fair  hors,  and  jolly  and  gay  sadeles 
and  bridles  ringing  by  the  way,  and  [the  priest] 
himself  in  costly  clothes  and  parure,"  while  "Ben- 
eficed  priests  kennen  not  the  Ten  Commandments, 
ne  read  their  sauter,  ne  understand  a  verse  of  it." 
"  Capped  priests  that  had  bean  cleped  masters  of 
divinity  have  their  chamber  and  service  as  lords 
and  kings,  and  senden  out  idiots  full  of  covetise  to 
preache  not  the  Gospel,  but  chronicles,  fables,  and 
lesings,  to  please  the  people  and  to  rob  them." 
WyclifFe  Avas  befriended  by  the  king's  son,  John 
of  Gaunt,  or  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  him. 
His  most  valuable  work  is  his  translation  of  the 
Bible,  in  1380.  It  is  not  only  our  first  entire 
English  Bible,  but  is  among  our  earliest  Saxon 
prose  books. 

The  very  oldest  is  Sir  John  Mandeville's  ac 
count  of  his  travels,  published  in  1355.  Among 
the  marvellous  things  which  he  saw  in  his  East 
ern  travels  was  a  palace,  in  the  hall  of  which  was 
"  a  vine  made  of  gold  that  goeth  all  about  the  hall, 
and  it  hath  many  bunches  of  grapes.  Some  are 
white,  .  .  .  and  the  red  are  rubies."  One  of  the 
emperors  whom  he  visited  "hath  in  his  chamber  a 
pillar  of  gold  in  which  is  a  ruby  and  carbuncle  a 


282          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

foot  long,  which  lighteth  all  his  chamber  by  night." 
He  gave  to  Becket's  shrine  in  Canterbury  Cathe 
dral  a  glass  globe  containing  an  apple  brought  from 
the  East  in  good  preservation,  and  to  the  altar  of 
St.  Albans  Abbey  Church,  a  patera  from  Egypt, 
still  preserved  in  London. 

Contemporary  with  Wycliffe,  and  like  him  a 
friend  of  Prince  John,  was  Geoffrey  Chaucer,  stu 
dent,  man  of  the  world,  soldier,  courtier,  ambassa 
dor,  traveller,  but  greater  than  all,  and  best  known 
to  us,  as  poet,  and  the  "  Father  of  English  Po 
etry."  Ruddy,  and  of  a  beautiful  countenance,  so 
that  the  Countess  of  Pembroke  used  to  tell  him 
that  his  silence  was  more  agreeable  to  her  than  his 
conversation  (which,  by  the  way,  most  of  us  would 
consider  a  questionable  compliment),  of  graceful 
figure  and  polished  manners,  familiar  with  the 
splendors  of  the  most  splendid  court  of  Europe, 
and  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  her  finest  gentle 
men,  Chaucer  led  a  life  such  as  few  poets  have 
led  f  though,  towards  the  end  of  it,  he  is  supposed 
to  have  shared  the  common  lot,  and  to  have  suf 
fered  from  poverty  and  neglect.  He  not  only  en 
riched  our  literature  by  his  direct  contributions, 
but  he  crystallized  the  language,  which  at  that  time 
was  fluctuating  and  uncertain.  People  clung  to 
old  Saxon  forms  after  the  substance  had  faded,  and 
rejected  any  improvements  from  the  hated  Nor 
mans.  But  Chaucer,  in  close  intimacy  with  them, 
had  no  such  scruples,  and  he  introduced  a  mul- 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PATHS.        283 

titude  of  French  words  which  are  now  a  part  of 
our  daily  speech.  It  is  of  him  that  Spenser  speaks 
as  the  "  well  of  English  undefyled."  Before  his 
time,  the  language  could  hardly  be  called  Eng 
lish  at  all.  His  poetry,  as  might  he  supposed, 
deals  with  men  and  women  rather  than  with  na 
ture,  yet  it  is  sweet-scented  everywhere  with  the 
breath  of  the  May-time.  He  joins  his  contempo 
raries  in  the  hue  and  cry  raised  against  priestcraft, 
and  has  thousands  of  sharp,  shining  arrows  for  the 
fashionable  vices  and  weaknesses  of  society.  His 
principal  work  is  the  Canterbury  Tales.  Some  of 
them  bear  date  after  his  sixtieth  year,  and  the 
whole  work  lay  upward  of  seventy  years  in  the 
manuscript,  when  Caxton  made  it  one  of  the  ear 
liest  productions  of  his  press.  It  consists  of  stories 
told  by  thirty  persons  who  are  on  a  pilgrimage  to 
Canterbury.*  Each  is  to  tell  one  story  in  going, 
and  one  in  returning ;  but  he  did  not  complete  his 
design,  as  there  are  only  twenty-four  stories  in  all. 
They  are  prefaced  by  a  pen-portrait  of  each  one 
of  the  company,  which  is  the  best  part  of  it.  He 
gives  us  admirable  pictures  of  the  life  and  man 
ners  of  the  Englishmen  of  the  day,  from  highest 
to  lowest.  He  is  genial,  manly,  shrewd,  full  of 
sly,  or  keen,  or  broad  humor.  His  observation  is 
minute  and  accurate.  His  outlines  are  firm  and 
full.  His  men  and  women  are  real,  living,  English 
human  beings,  acting  just  as  fourteenth-century 
Englishmen  would  be  supposed  to  act.  Nothing 


284          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

of  its  kind  in  English  literature  has  surpassed  it. 
Merrie  England  never  before  or  since  sat  for  her 
portrait  to  such  a  master  of  his  art.  His  healthy 
good  humor,  his  own  manifest  enjoyment  of  his 
work,  his  nice  sense  of  the  ridiculous  and  his  inim 
itable  skill  in  taking  advantage  of  it,  his  tenderness 
of  feeling,  his  gentle  pathos,  the  little  dew-drops 
of  Nature,  that  sparkle  throughout,  the  lofty,  ro 
mantic,  chivalrous,  and  even  heroic  tone  of  a  great 
part,  make  us  overlook  much  coarseness,  some  of 
which  is  attributable  to  the  age,  and  not  to  the 
writer. 

It  is  marvellous  that  we  do  not  read  Chaucer 
more.  The  language  presents  no  difficulties  that 
may  not  be  overcome  by  a  little  practice,  and 
Chaucer  modernized  is  Chaucer  about  as  good  as 
spoiled.  It  destroys  his  simplicity,  and  the  exqui 
site  olden  flavor,  while  the  ancient  form  gives  us  at 
a  glance  the  history  of  numerous  words,  and  is  a 
quarry  of  interesting  lore. 

What  with  French  wars,  insurrectionary  wars, 
and  civil  wars,  Merrie  England  seems  to  have  had 
a  very  pretty  time  of  it  during  the  fifteenth  cen 
tury;  and  since  people  that  are  fighting  cannot 
always  stop  to  write,  literature  languished  during 
this  and  the  first  half  of  the  next  century.  Some 
of  our  best  old  ballads,  however,  which  came  in  as 
the  Chivalrous  Romances  died  out,  and  were  to 
the  common  people  what  these  had  been  to  the 
nobility,  are  referable  to  this  period. 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PATHS.        285 

Sir  Thomas  More,  too,  lived  his  noble  life,  died 
his  honorable  death,  and  produced  the  work  of 
genius  of  his  age.  He  has  been  said  to  be  the  first 
English  writer  whose  prose  is  good.  "  Utopia," 
written  in  Latin,  is  an  account  of  a  common 
wealth  planted  on  an  island  newly  discovered 
in  the  Atlantic.  The  principles  on  which  it 
is  founded  put  to  shame  the  boasting  nineteenth 
century.  His  republic  recognizes  the  importance 
of  religious  toleration,  popular  education,  and  the 
prevention  rather  than  the  punishment  of  crime. 
He  will  have  no  lawyers  in  it,  and  men  who 
do  not  believe  in  a  future  state  are  ineligible 
to  office,  but  not  punished,  "  because  a  man 
cannot  make  himself  believe  what  he  please," 
and  he  "will  not  drive  men  to  dissemble."  He 
even  goes  so  far  as  to  punish  persecutors  by 
banishment  or  slavery.  In  its  design  it  sug 
gests  Plato's  "  Republic,"  and  in  style  Swift's 
"•  Gulliver's  Travels."  It  is  a  romance,  —  serious 
enough  to  express  his  views,  which  were  far  in 
advance  of  his  age,  —  and  having  enough  the  air 
of  a  jest  and  satire  to  be  passed  off  as  such  in  case 
its  free-thinking  should  bring  him  under  the  ban 
of  Henry  the  Eighth.  Utopia  is  a  word  of  Greek 
derivation,  and  means  "  nowhere."  Its  chief  river, 
Anyder,  means  "  waterless,"  and  its  nomenclature 
is  arranged  chiefly  after  the  same  fashion. 

Roger  Ascham,  the  beloved  tutor  of  the  lovely 
and  ill-fated  Lady  Jane  Grey,  and  a  fine  classi- 


286  SKIRMISHES  AXD   SKETCHES. 

cal  scholar,  somewhat  later  than  More,  wrote 
excellent  English  and  excellent  sense.  His  most 
interesting  work  is  "The  Schoolmaster,"  in  which 
he  promulgates  his  ideas  of  teaching,  —  ideas  tho.t 
have  even  now  much  value.  It  is  in  this  work 
that  we  find  Lady  Jane  Grey  reading  Greek 
while  her  family  are  out  hunting.  He  prophesies 
also  a  failure  in  the  attempt  to  naturalize  hexame 
ters,  —  a  prophecy  which  seems  to  have  been  true, 
notwithstanding  "  Evangeline." 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey,  courteous, 
chivalrous,  and  accomplished,  —  beheaded  at  the 
age  of  thirty-one  by  Henry  the  Eighth  for  being  a 
kinsman  of  Katherine  Howard,  —  transplanted  the 
Sonnet  from  Italy  to  England,  polished  the  lan 
guage  to  greater  refinement,  and  gave  the  first 
blank  verse  to  English  poetry  in  his  translations 
of  Virgil. 

The  first  series  of  private  letters  known  to  exist 
in  Europe  are  called  "  The  Paston  Letters,"  and 
date  back  to  this  century.  They  are  sprightly  and 
interesting  familiar  letters,  by  and  to  different 
members  of  a  rich  and  respectable  family  of  Eng 
lish  gentry. 

The  sixteenth  century  dragged  heavily  at  first, 
under  the  feet  of  a  bloody  and  brutal  king,  but 
after  Elizabeth  ascended  the  throne,  in  1558,  the 
soul  of  the  nation  came  up  like  a  lion  from  the 
swelling  of  Jordan,  and  made  that  century,  and 
the  first  part  of  the  next,  memorable.  Patriot- 


A  RAMBLE  IX  THE  OLD  PATHS.   2«7 

ism,  kindled  by  Spanish  menace,  the  Spirit  of 
Freedom  evoked  by  Luther,  joined  hands  with 
the  lingering  Romance  of  the  past,  and  life  and 
vigor  and  beauty  burst  everywhere  into  bloom. 
The  virgin  queen  surrounded  herself  with  men, 
any  one  of  whom  would  have  made  a  reign  illus 
trious. 

Francis  Bacon,  born  and  bred  in  the  sunshine 
of  her  court,  and,  in  his  childhood,  playfully 
called  by  her  her  young  Lord  Keeper,  was  at 
once  the  glory  and  the  shame  of  his  time,  —  a 
man  who,  with  undying  fame  in  his  grasp,  cringed 
for  court  favor,  with  all  future  ages  at  his  feet, 
sold  his  integrity  for  a  bawble,  and  who  by  his 
intellect  secured  an  immortality  which  his  char 
acter  can  only  deprecate.  Politics  was  his  busi 
ness,  and  it  left  him  a  disgraced  and  broken-heart 
ed  old  man.  Philosophy  was  his  amusement,  and 
it  crowned  him  with  glory,  honor,  and  immor 
tality.  "  I  have  taken  all  knowledge  to  be  my 
province,"  was  the  sublime  watchword  of  the 
youthful  philosopher.  "  I  do  plainly  and  ingenu 
ously  confess  that  I  am  guilty  of  corruption.  I 
beseech  your  lordships  to  be  merciful  to  a  broken 
reed,"  is  the  pathetic  wail  of  the  aged  Chancellor. 
His  great  work  is  Instauratio  Magna^  "  The  Great 
Restoration"  (of  Philosophy).  He  inaugurated  a 
new  era.  The  old  philosophers  revered  Science  as 
a  goddess,  but  Bacon  made  her  the  handmaid  of 
man.  They  would  have  deemed  the  telegraph  a 


288          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

degradation  of  electricity.  He  would  have  deemed 
it  a  new  gem  in  its  crown.  So  he  honored  man 
and  labored  for  his  good.  The  Instauratio  Magna 
is  divided  into  six  parts,  of  which  the  second,  the 
Novum  Organum,  is  perhaps  the  most  celebrated, 
certainly  the  most  quoted,  especially  the  first  book, 
which  its  aphoristic  style  facilitates.  Bacon  also 
wrote  a  romance,  "  The  New  Atlantis,"  but  he  is 
most  popularly  known  by  his  Essays,  which  are 
written  in  every-day  language,  on  every-day  sub 
jects,  and,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  come  home  to 
men's  business  and  bosoms."  Few  modern  books 
are  so  well  worth  reading.  He  is  replete  with  wit 
and  wisdom,  concise  and  concentrated,  often  imagi 
native,  often  poetical,  always  suggestive,  always 
peerless. 

Edmund  Spenser,  the  friend  of  Leicester  and 
Raleigh,  named  in  his  epitaph,  with  no  "  obituary 
falsehood,"  "prince  of  poets  in  his  tyme,"  — 

"  Sweet  Spenser,  moving  through  his  clouded  heaven 
With  the  moon's  beauty  and  the  moon's  soft  pace," 

shines  upon  us  still  with  a  white  radiance  that  no 
years  can  dim.  His  principal  work,  "  The  Faerie 
Queene,"  is  a  chivalrous  romance.  We  walk  in  a 
marvellous  land,  —  a  land  of  enchanted  forests,  and 
mystical  gardens,  and  golden  palaces,  of  valiant 
knights,  and  lovely  ladies,  and  light-footed  naiads, 
of  witches,  and  hags,  and  elves,  and  satyrs.  But 
more  is  meant  than  meets  the  eye.  Under  the 
surface -story  lies  an  allegory,  and  perhaps  some- 


289 

what  of  traditional  history.  With  or  without  alle 
gory,  the  poem  —  especially  the  first  book,  which 
is  a  poem  by  itself — is  resplendent  with  genius 
and  spotless  in  purity.  Written  in  the  full  flush 
of  his  prime,  there  is  an- exquisite  delicacy  and 
harmony  of  language,  a  luxuriance  of  imagination, 
a  tenderness  of  feeling,  a  religious  fervor,  a  sweet 
and  serious  simplicity,  which  justify  his  title,  "  Po 
et  of  poets."  His  "  Epithalamion,"  or  Marriage 
Song,  a 

"  Song  made  in  lieu  of  many  ornaments 
With  which  nfy  love  should  duly  have  been  dect," 

is  a  gush  of  melody,  an  "  intoxication  of  ecstasy." 
Never,  surely,  were  maiden  brows  wreathed  with 
a  chaplet  so  fair. 

Of  Shakespeare  it  is  needless  to  speak. 
"  He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time." 

Over  the  remote  past  and  the  remote  future,'  he 
waved  his  wand,  and  they  became  instinct  with 
life.  The  world  of  reality  and  the  realm  of  Faerie 
were  alike  laid  under  subsidy.  In  creative  power, 
in  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  and  in  his  all- 
comprehensive  philosophy,  the  "myriad-minded 
man"  stands  alone, 

"  Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  epitome.  ' 

Of  the  man  Shakespeare  we  hardly  know  more 
than  of  Melchisedec.     The  poet  Shakespeare  was 
the  legacy  of  his  age  to  all  future  generations. 
In  connection  with  Shakespeare,  it  may  be  men- 

13  S 


290          SKIRMISHES  AXD   SKETCHES 

tioned  that  the  early  theatres  in  England  were 
under  the  direction  of  the  clergy,  who  often  wrote 
the  plays,  and  were  not  unfrequently  the  actors. 
They  found  that  people  insisted  on  being  amused 
by  vulgar  and  pernicious  exhibitions  at  the  coun 
try  fairs,  and  they  very  wisely  took  the  matter 
into  their  own  hands,  and  made  themselves  friends 
of  the  mammon  of  unrighteousness.  Under  their 
auspices,  the  Drama  became  a  source  not  only 
of  amusement,  but  of  instruction.  The  plays 
(known  as  Mysteries)  were  religious,  and  were 
founded  on  Bible  narratives  or  saintly  -legends, 
and  called  Miracle-Plays,  in  distinction  from  a 
later  class  which  grew  out  of  them,  called  Moral 
Plays,  which  were  made  instructive  by  personi 
fying  abstract  qualities.  Subsequently,  these  two 
were  confounded  into  Mixed  Plays,  or  Interludes. 
It  *vas  not  till  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  cen 
tury  that  the  Drama  was  divided  into  Comedy 
and  Tragedy.  Nicholas  Udall  wrote  the  earliest 
known  Comedy,  "  Ralph  Roister  Doister,"  at  a 
date  earlier  than  1557.  He  was  master  of  Eton, 
and  wrote  several  Latin  plays  to  while  away  the 
long  winter  evenings  of  his  boys,  who  acted  them. 
Thomas  Norton  and  Lord  Buckhurst  (Thomas 
Sackville,  son  of  Sir  Richard  Sackville,  who 
prompted  the  composition  of  Ascham's  "  School 
master")  wrote  the  first  Tragedy,  "Gorboduc," 
and  first  applied  blank  verse  to  dramatic  compo 
sition,  about  1567. 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PATHS.        291 
Amono-   the    most   celebrated    minor   dramatic 

O 

writers,  contemporary,,  or  nearly  so,  with  Shake 
speare,  may  be  reckoned  Marlowe,  solemn  and 
stately,  yet  in  his  tragic  frenzy  "  tearing  and 
rending  his  way  through  his  verse." 

"  His  raptures  were 
All  air  and  fire." 

Ben  Jonson,  of  the  noted  epitaph,  (O  rare 
Ben  Jonson !)  the  burly  bricklayer,  Shakespeare's 
friend  and  admirer,  Camden's  pupil,  Fuller's 
"  Spanish  great  galleon,"  in  artistic  merit  has 
been  ranked  next  to  Shakespeare.  Poignant, 
sarcastic,  and  learned,  —  at  once  strong  and  deli 
cate, — he  deserves  special  mention  for  preserving 
moral  purity  in  the  midst  of  licentiousness. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  twins  in  genius  and 
associates  in  life,  barely  escaped  greatness.  With 
much  elevation  of  sentiment,  much  wealth  of  im 
agination,  much  fineness  of  feelihg  and  exquisite 
poetic  diction,  their  works  are  grievously  marred 
by  the  indecency  of  their  age. 

The  melancholy  Massinger,  whose  tombstone 
only  records  "  Philip  Massinger,  a  stranger,"  vig 
orous,  original,  romantic,  graceful,  majestic;  Ford, 
working  out  horrible  plots  with  pathos  and  effect ; 
Webster,  delighting  in  the  charnel-house ;  Chap 
man,  chiefly  known  for  his  Homeric  translation  of 
Homer,  —  are  all  that  I  have  space  to  mention. 
The  style  of  all  seems  to  us  somewhat  stiff  and 
uncouth.  They  affected  antiquated  or  obsolete 


292         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

phrases,  and  far-fetched   conceits,  but   the  worst 
fault  is  their  immorality. 

What  had  been  mere  coarseness  of  language 
and  manners  sunk  gradually  into  the  grain  of  life 
and  society,  and  literature  in  the  seventeenth 
century  and  under  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Sec 
ond  became  frightfully  depraved,  although  the 
heroic  and  life-giving  impulse  of  the  sixteenth  ex 
tended  to  the  first  half  of  the  succeeding  centu 
ry.  Among  the  prose-writers  of  that  period,  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  brightest  ornament  of  Queen  Eliza 
beth's  court,  the  gentleman  and  hero  among  a 
race  of  heroes,  "  a  warbler  of  poetic  prose,"  wrote 
a  "  Defence  of  Poesy,"  rather  eloquent  than  lucid, 
and  whose  existence  is  his  strongest  argument. 
His  Arcadia  is  a  voluminous  romance,  said  to  have 
been  written  to  please  his  sister,  the  Countess  of 
Pembroke,  extremely  popular  in  its  day,  but  now 
little  read.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  in  the  Tower 
of  London,  under  sentence  of  death,  wrote  a 
huge  history  of  the  world,  full  of  learning,  serious 
and  devout  in  tone,  as  it  well  might  be,  and  less 
read,  perhaps,  than  from  its  eloquence  it  deserves 
to  be.  Among  theologians,  Hooker's  famous 
"  Ecclesiastical  Polity  "  ably  discusses  the  princi 
ples  on  which  the  Reformed  English  Church  was 
established,  and  is  strenuous  for  popular  govern 
ment  to  the  verge  of  democracy.  Grave  and  ele 
vated  in  style,  it  is  said  to  be,  in  point  of  eloquence, 
the  noblest  monument  in  our  language. 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PA  THS.       293 

Hall,  a  generation  later  than  Hooker,  is  clear, 
logical,  shrewd,  practical,  pedantic,  erudite,  — 
often,  in  his  sermons,  colloquial  even  to  punning. 
He  has  been  called  the  English  Seneca.  His 
"  Contemplations  "  is  his  most  celebrated  work. 

Jeremy  Taylor,  his  contemporary,  is  imagina 
tive,  fanciful,  rhetorical  to  a  degree  which  some 
times  disfigures  his  style,  impassioned,  gentle,  and 
charitable.  His  sermons  abound  in  classical  and 
other  quotations,  and  his  imagination  sometimes 
bears  him  aloft  beyond  the  vision  of  a  common 
place  audience.  His  "  Holy  Living,"  "  Holy 
Dying,"  and  "  Life  of  Christ,"  are  more  famil 
iar  to  the  present  generation  than  "  The  Golden 
Grove," — so  named  from  the  place  where  it  was 
written,  the  house  of  his  neighbor  and  patron,  the 
Earl  of  Carberry.  His  "  Liberty  of  Prophesying  " 
is  the  first  direct  and  able  plea  for  religious  toler 
ation.  Written  during  his  own  forced  silence  and 
retirement  in  Wales  for  his  religious  opinions,  it 
may  well  have  been  earnest.  He  affirms  that 
the  very  fact  that  wise  and  good  men  differ  about 
certain  doctrines  indicates  that  those  doctrines  are 
.not  revealed  in  the  Bible,  —  that  the  fundamental 
truths  can  be  placed  in  very  small  compass,  —  in 
fact,  embrace  no  more  than  the  Apostles'  Creed. 

Baxter  (who  died  in  1691)  wrote  for  use,  not 
for  reputation,  amid  sickness  and  persecution.  He 
is  careless  of  style,  careful  only  for  matter,  bold, 
acute,  impetuous,  often  homely,  and  even  coarse 


294          SKIRMISHES  AXD   SKETCHES. 

in  his  determination  to  be  intelligible  and  impres 
sive.  His  "  Saint's  Everlasting  Rest,"  and  his 
"  Call  to  the  Unconverted,"  are  widely  known. 

Fuller,  of  marvellous  memory  and  inexhaustible 
wit,  eccentric,  kind-hearted,  and  pious,  overflow 
ing  with  "  quips,  and  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles," 
has  been  called  "  the  very  strangest  writer  in  our 
language."  Wandering  up  and  down  in  England, 
he  preached  sermons  so  interesting,  so  attractive, 
so  irresistible,  that  it  has  been  said  he  was  accus 
tomed  to  have  two  audiences  at  every  discourse  ; 
the  one  seated  in  the  church,  the  other  listening 
eagerly  through  the  open  windows.  Sometimes 
his  words  cleft  the  scholarly  air  of  Cambridge  ; 
then  he  went  down  into  the  fruitful  and  beauti 
ful  valley -lands  of  Dorsetshire  ;  up  again  presently 
into  the  thick  of  London  life  ;  but  wherever  he 
went,  his  fame  went  before  him,  and  lingered 
behind  him.  Dry-as-dust,  in  the  Cambridge  ar 
chives,  lifted  his  eyes  from  his  fragrant  and  beloved 
tomes,  roused  into  animation  by  that  cheery,  hearty 
voice ;  Colin,  fresh  from  his  sheepfold,  felt  its  per 
suasive  power ;  and  above  all  the  din  and  roar  of 
the  angry  crowd  in  the  great  city,  it  rang  out  its 
trumpet-notes  of  no  uncertain  sound.  A  civil 
war  shook  the  land.  Lovers  of  liberty,  then  as 
now,  left  home  and  quiet,  child  and  wife,  buckled 
on  armor,  and  rushed  joyfully  to  battle  and  to 
death.  Amid  many  a  lurid  sacrifice,  set  on  fire 
of  hell,  gleamed  over  all  the  land  the  heavenly 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PATHS.        295 

light  of  burnt-offerings  acceptable  unto  the  Lord. 
Among  it  all,  with  watchful  eye  and  undaunted 
heart,  this  man  walked;  no  partisan, — too  firm 
a  believer  in  the  divine  right  of  kings  for  the 
one  side,  too  loyal  a'  supporter  of  the  divine  right 
of  the  people  for  the  other,  —  but  respected  for 
his  worth,  courted  for  his  wit,  and  admired 
for  his  wisdom.  On  whichever  side  he  spoke, 
men  believed  in  his  sincerity,  and  his  lofty  aims. 
Over  a  nation,  surging  with  love  and  rage,  he 
endeavored  to  pour  the  oil  of  peace  and  patience ; 
yet  on  occasion,  he  could  fire  a  beleaguered  gar 
rison  to  heroic  and  successful  resistance.  Never 
suffering  himself  to  be  carried  beyond  the  control  of 
reason  and  right,  he  evinced  the  serene  self-poise 
of  his  character  by  enforcing  the  claims  of  relig 
ion,  and  the  duty  of  moderation  in  the  midst  of 
civil  war ;  and  was  yet  so  joyous,  so  light-hearted, 
so  full  of  infinite  jest  and  most  excellent  humor, 
that  it  seemed  "  He  scarce  could  ope  his  mouth, 
but  out  there  flew "  an  anecdote,  a  pun,  a  sar 
casm, —  something  witty  and  winged  for  a  straight 
flight  to  the  mark.  Indeed,  Lamb  says,  "  Such 
was  his  natural  bias  to  conceits,  that  I  doubt  not 
upon  most  occasions  it  would  have  been  going 
out  of  his  way  to  have  expressed  himself  out  of 
them."  His  lively  imagination  was  aided  by  a 
marvellous  memory.  Five  hundred  words,  en 
tirely  unconnected,  in  different  languages,  he 
could  repeat,  after  hearing  them  twice  read. 


296          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

Passing  down  one  side,  and  up  the  other,  of 
one  of  the  busy  streets  of  London,  he  could 
repeat,  in  their  order,  every  sign  on  both  sides. 
A  whole  sermon,  after  one  reading,  he  could 
repeat  word  for  word.  An  anecdote  is  told  cor 
roborative  at  once  of  his  memory,  his  wit,  and  his 
benevolence.  The  Committee  of  Sequestrators,  at 
one  of  their  sittings,  were  speaking  of  his  great 
memory ;  he  offered  to  give  them  an  example  of 
it ;  they  accepted  the  motion,  and  he  immediate! y 
mentioned  a  poor  parson,  his  neighbor,  who  had 
been  deprived  of  his  living,  and  committed  to 
prison,  to  the  great  distress  of  his  family ;  adding, 
"  If  you  will  please  to  release  him  out  of  prison, 
and  restore  him  to  his  parish,  /  will  never  forget 
the  kindness  while  I  live  !  "  Travelling  to  and  fro 
as  chaplain  in  the  army,  gathering  from  every  old 
woman  and  every  rustic  such  snatches  of  local 
history  and  tradition  as  they  could  furnish,  and 
storing  them  away  in  the  vast  halls  of  his  memory, 
re-creating  through  his  imagination,  he  made  his 
mind  an  inexhaustible  repertory,  from  which  lie 
brought  forth  at  command  things  new  and  old. 
Quaint  and  sensible,  learned  and  lively,  witty 
and  genial,  religious  and  humane,  he  has  never 
wanted,  through  all  these  years,  his  coterie  of  en 
thusiastic  admirers;  but  time  and  books  have  inter 
posed  between  him  and  a  large  audience. 

Among  the  lay  writers  may  be  mentioned  John 
Lyly,  whose  "  Euphues  "  is  worthy  of  note  more 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PATHS.        297 

for  its  influence  than  for  its  intrinsic  worth.  It  is 
pompous  and  pedantic,  but  it  pleased  his  readers, 
.and  was  for  a  time  fashionable.  Selden's  "  Table- 
Talk  "  is  the  precursor  of  Boswell.  Burton's 
"  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,"  an  "  undigested  far 
rago,"  was  the  only  book,  Johnson  says,  that  took 
him  out  of  bed  two  hours  before  he  wished.  Sir 
Thomas  Browne  is  quaint,  somewhat  cumbrous, 
paradoxical,  brilliant,  and  full  of  interest. 

The  muster-roll  of  the  gods  closes  with  the 
name  of  John  Milton.  Here  it  becomes  us  to 
walk  with  unsandalled  feet,  for  we  tread  on  holy 
ground.  His  whole  life  was  an  exposition  of  his 
noble  words, —  "that  he  who  would  not  be  frus 
trate  of  his  hope  to  write  well  hereafter  in  lauda 
ble  things,  ought  himself  to  be  a  true  poem ;  that 
is,  a  composition  and  pattern  of  the  best  and  hon- 
orablest  things ;  not  presuming  to  sing  high  praises 
of  heroic  men,  or  famous  cities,  unless  he  have  in 
himself  the  experience  and  the  practice  of  all  that 
which  is  praiseworthy."  In  the  bloom  of  his 
beautiful  youth,  he  wrote  "  L'  Allegro,"  "  II  Pen- 
seroso,"  and  "  Lycidas."  The  first  is  an  invoca 
tion  to  Mirth,  the  second  to  Melancholy.  In  the 
one,  Nature  is  a  country  lass,  cheerful,  ruddy,  and 
buxom.  In  the  other,  she  is  a  pale-browed  Ma 
donna,  saintly  and  pure.  "  Lycidas  "  is  a  monody 
on  the  death  of  his  young  friend  King,  drowned 
in  the  Irish  Sea.  It  is  a  memorial  of  dignified 
sorrow,  to  which  only  Tennyson's  "  In  Memo- 
is* 


298          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

riara"  is  second.  His  "Ode  on  the  Nativity"  is 
simple,  calm,  majestic,  self-poised  above  comment. 
While  he  was  drinking  in  the  loveliness  of  Italy, 
basking  in  the  sunshine  of  her  appreciative  hom 
age,  and  strengthening  himself  for  his  life-work,  a 
sound  of  battle  in  his  native  land  broke  harshly 
upon  the  soft  Italian  air.  Already  the  gleam  of 
his  great  song  had  shone  upon  him,  but  at  the 
call  of  patriotism  he  put  off  his  garland  and  sing 
ing-robes  and  went  home  to  do  knightly  duty. 
His  pen  wrought  mightily  for  England  and  liberty. 
His  polemical  writings  were  of  course  chiefly  of 
local  and  temporary  interest.  His  style  is  always 
elaborate,  inverted,  to  us  unnatural,  and  often 
harsh ;  but  alike  in  prose  and  in  poetry,  his  won 
derful  learning  is  poured  out  with  unstinted  prodi 
gality,  and  ever  and  anon  the  grand  soul  of  the 
poet  bursts  forth  resplendent  and  sublime.  His 
"Areopagitica,"  a  plea  for  unlicensed  printing,  is 
a  noble,  glowing,  and  eloquent  tribute  to  Truth, 
such  as  any  age  might  be  proud  to  claim.  He 
loved  liberty  with  an  immortal  love.  Assured  by 
his  physicians  that  the  completion  of  his  "Defence 
of  the  English  People  "  would  result  in  total 
blindness,  he  still  believed  his  duty  unchanged, 
finished  the  work,  and  took  leave  forever  of  the 
sweet  sunshine.  The  sacrifice  which  he  made  in 
turning  aside  from  poetry  and  literature  to  con 
troversy,  is  one  which  few  have  the  ability  to 
make.  His  own  account  of  it  has  a  manly  mod- 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PATHS.        299 

ecty  and  sublime  self-confidence, — the  loftiness, 
and  breadth,  and  majesty  which  stamps  alike  his 
writings  and  his  life.  "  For  although  a  poet,  soar 
ing  in  the  high  reason  of  his  fancies,  with  his  gar 
land  and  singing-robes  about  him,  might,  without 
apology,  speak  more  of  himself  than  I  mean  to 
do ;  yet  for  me  sitting  here  below  in  the  cool  ele 
ment  of  prose,  a  mortal  thing  among  many  read 
ers  of  no  empyreal  conceit,  to  venture  and  divulge 
unusual  things  of  myself,  I  shall  petition  to  the 
gentler  sort,  it  may  not  be  envy  to  me.  I  must 
say,  therefore,  that  after  I  had  for  my  first  years, 
by  the  ceaseless  diligence  and  care  of  my  father, 
(whom  God  recompense!)"  studied  and  written 
"  the  style,  by  certain  vital  signs  it  had,  was  likely 
to  live.  But  much  latelier  in  the  private  acade 
mies  of  Italy,  whither  I  was  favored  to  resort, 
perceiving  that  some  trifles  which  I  had  .... 
composed  at  under  twenty  or  thereabout,  met 

with  acceptance  above  what  was  looked  for 

I  began  thus  far  to  assent  both  to  them  and  to 
divers  of  my  friends  here  at  home7,  and  not  less  to 
an  inward  prompting  which  now  grew  daily  upon 
me,  that  by  labor  and  intense  study,  ....  joined 
with  the  strong  propensity  of  nature,  I  might  per 
haps  leave  something  so  written  to  after  times,  as 

they  should  not  willingly  let  it  die Neither 

do  I  think  it  shame  to  covenant  with  any  knowing 
reader,  that  for  some  few  years  yet  I  may  go  on 
trust  with  him  toward  the  payment  of  what  I  am 


300          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

now  indebted,  as  being  a  work  not  to  be  raised  from 
the  heat  of  youth,  or  the  vapors  of  wine ;  .  .  .  . 
but  by  devout  prayer  to  that  Eternal  Spirit,  who 
can  enrich  with  all  utterance  and  knowledge,  and 
sends  out  his  Seraphim,  with  the  hallowed  fire  of 
his  altar,  to  touch  and  purify  the  lips  of  whom  he 

pleases Although  it  nothing  content  me 

to  have  disclosed  thus  much  beforehand,  but  that 
I  trust  hereby  to  make  it  manifest  with  what  small 
willingness  I  endure  to  interrupt  the  pursuit  of  no 
less  hopes  than  these,  and  leave  a  calm  and  pleas 
ing  solitariness,  fed  with  cheerful  and  confident 
thoughts,  to  embark  in  a  troubled  sea  of  noises 
and  hoarse  disputes But  were  it  the  mean 
est  under-service,  if  God  by  his  secretary  con 
science  enjoin  it,  it  were  sad  for  me  if  I  should 
draw  back."  So,  a  Cavalier  and  a  poet  by  taste, 
a  politician  and  a  Roundhead  by  principle,  his 
days  went  grandly  by.  When  the  Republic  van 
ished,  and  Charles  the  Second  had  introduced  the 
age  of  moral  degradation, 

"  His  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart." 

He  was  blind,  poor,  despised,  forsaken,  but  his 
groping  fingers  wandered  over  the  sacred  keys, 
and  drew  thence  "  a  sevenfold  chorus  of  songs 
and  harping  symphonies."  The  glories  of  heaven 
passed  in  stately  procession  before  the  eyes  that 
were  closed  to  earth,  and  his  epic  life  blossomed 
in  that  flower  of  a  thousand  centuries,  "  Paradise 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PATHS.       301 

Lost."  His  dust  consecrates  the  chancel  of  St. 
Giles  Church ;  his  spirit  is  passed  beyond  our  ken ; 
his  memory  is  the  heritage  of  his  race. 

John  Dryden  is  the  only  other  poet  of  the  seven 
teenth  century  who  need  be  mentioned  in  a  gen 
eral  sketch,  and  he  is  remembered  more  for  his 
ability  than  for  his  achievements.  He  displays 
great  vigor  of  reasoning  and  the  utmost  felicity 
of  expression.  The  characters  of  his  dramas 
are  unnatural,  and  their  talk  is  harangue.  His 
panegyrics  are  stilted  and  full  of  conceits.  His 
renderings  of  Chaucer  are  easy  and  pleasant, 
but,  compared  with  Chaucer,  verbose.  His  Ode 
on  St.  Cecilia's  Day  is .  animated  and  pictu 
resque.  His  Satires  are  condensed,  discriminat 
ing,  and  terribly  severe.  His  command  of  lan 
guage  is  admirable,  —  he  says  what  he  undertakes 
to  say ;  and  he  did  much  for  the  improvement  of 
style.  Had  he  only  been  able  to  stand  aloof,  like 
Milton,  whom  he  admired,  from  the  venality  of  his 
time,  he  might  have  left  a  great  name ;  but  he 
chose  the  applause  of  a  vile  present,  to  the  ap 
proval  of  the  purer  future.  He  deemed  it 

"  Better  to  reign  in  hell  than  serve  in  heaven," 

and  he  stooped  to  conquer.  By  pandering  to  li 
centiousness,  he  led  the  licentious  herd,  and  —  lost 
the  prize  !  Yet  he  deserves  pity  rather  than  scorn. 
The  miserable  husband  of  an  Earl's  daughter,  — 
who  despised  him  for  a  plebeian,  but  who  yet  must 


302          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

not  be  unduly  blamed,  since  it  was  not  her  fault 
that  she  was  born  a  Howard  and  a  fool,  —  a 
wretched  home  gave  him  no  comfort,  and  his 
brain  was  his  only  resource  for  bread.  But  it 
must  be  a  profound  and  lasting  regret 

"that  a  ribald  king  and  court 
Bade  him  toil  on  to  make  them  sport ; 
Demanded  for  their  niggard  pay, 
Fit  for  their  souls,  a  looser  lay, 
Licentious  satire,  song,  und  play  ; 
The  world  defrauded  of  the  high  design, 
Profaned  the  God-given  strength  and  marred  the  lofty  line." 

Among  the  lesser  lights  of  this  period  is  Samuel 
Butler,  author  of  "  Hudibras,"  a  rhymed  satire  on 
the  Puritans ;  keen-scented  for  cant,  homely  even 
to  coarseness,  keeping  up  a  steady  fire  of  wit,  sur 
passingly  ingenious  in  the  manufacture  of  humor 
ous  rhymes,  pungent,  and  Anglo-Saxon,  he  is  ex 
cellent  for  condiment,  but  too  spicy  for  the  chief 
dish.  Izaak  Walton,  gentle,  quaint,  courteous, 
graceful,  is  still  the  tutelar  divinity  of  anglers, 
in  virtue  of  his  "  Complete  Angler,"  a  half  pro 
fessional,  half  aesthetic,  and  wholly  charming  con 
versational  treatise  on  the  sport  he  loved. 

John  Bunyan,  the  Bedford  Tinker,  has  been 
called  the  Father  of  English  Novelists.  Unham 
pered  by  learning,  he  struck  out  a  path  for  him 
self,  and  wrought  in  Bedford  Jail  his  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  equally  the  delight  of  young  and  old. 
Robert  South,  the  "  shrewdest,  sharpest,  bitterest, 
wittiest  of  English  divines,"  bedaubed  a  vile  king 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PATHS.        303 

with  flattery,  mauled  everybody  else,  and  devoted 
his  income  to  the  charity  which  was  a  stranger  to 
his  toncrue.  Barrow,  said  at  the  time  of  his  nomi- 

&  7 

nation  to  the  headship  of  Trinity  College  to  be  the 
best  scholar  in  England,  second  only  to  Newton 
in  mathematics,  and  second  to  nobody,  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  in  the  length  of  his  sermons,  which  were 
never  less  than  an  hour  and  a  half,  and  sometimes 
over  three  hours,  long ;  Burnet,  whose  heterodoxy 
in  maintaining  that  the  story  of  Eden  was  an  alle 
gory,  and  that  punishment  was  finite,  stood  in  the 
way  of  his  preferment ;  Owen,  a  Nonconformist 
against  the  blandishments  of  king  and  court, — the 
former  of  whom  sent  for  him,  talked  with  him 
two  hours,  and  finally  gave  him  a  large  sum  of 
money  to  distribute  among  the  persecuted  poor, 

—  an  estimable  man,  a  learned  and  an  eloquent 
writer,  whom,  however,  Robert  Hall  said  he  never 
could  read  with  patience,  and  of  whom  somebody 

—  it  sounds  like  Johnson  —  said,  "  He  is  a  double 
Dutchman,  floundering  in  a  continent  of  mud," — 
all  belong  to  this  age. 

The  eighteenth  century  will  be  rather  pressed 
for  elbow-room,  but  then  it  is  a  mean  kind  of  a 
century.  It  finished  the  work  of  Dryden,  and 
carried  neatness,  clearness,  and  elegance  of  ex- 

7  '  O 

pression  to  an  unprecedented  height.  But  it  was 
a  cold,  sneering,  finical,  critical,  didactic  age. 
Of  course  this  is  not  true  of  every  writer  from 
1700  to  1800.  There  are  no  exact  dividing  lines 


304         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

in  mind  to  correspond  with  those  of  time,  and  the 
short,  sad,  passionate  life  of  one  who  stirs  the  pro- 
foundest  depths  of  the  human  heart  falls  wholly 
within  this  century.  But  the  genius  of  the  age 
was  the  legitimate  offspring  of  the  moral  baseness 
which  preceded  it.  It  has  no  faith.  It  is  earnest 
about  nothfng.  It  is  trim,  epigrammatic,  spark 
ling,  well-bred,  self-possessed,  but  it  never  thrills 
you,  possesses  itself  of  you.  Its  passion  is  simu 
lated.  Its  imagination  is  ingenious  rather  than 
strong  and  soaring.  It  has  nothing  heroic,  noth 
ing  sublime.  It  never  rises  into  rapture.  It  often 
sinks  into  coarse  spitefulness,  and  sometimes  into 
something  worse.  I  am  talking  of  the  time,  but 
I  believe  I  am  thinking  of  Pope,  who  is  perhaps 
its  best  exponent.  His  mechanism  is  wonderful. 
His  diction  is  unsurpassed.  His  versification  is 
rarely  at  fault,  and  in  a  slovenly  age  his  finish  is 
worthy  of  study.  But  he  and  his  contemporaries 
thought  less  of  substance  than  of  form.  They 
burnished  their  flies'  wings  exquisitely,  but  they 
made  nothing  but  flies.  Pope  touched  nothing 
which  he  did  not  adorn,  but  he  touched  only  small 
things.  His  finest  poem,  "  The  Rape  of  the  Lock," 
is  founded  on  a  quarrel  caused  by  a  gentleman's 
slyly  snipping  a  lady's  tress.  It  is  a  mock-heroic, 
incomparable  in  its  kind,  full  of  wit,  keen  satire, 
and  of  flowing  harmony,  to  be  fully  appreciated 
only  by  those  who  are  familiar  with  real  heroic 
poems.  His  "  Dunciad  "  is  an  elaborate  ridicule 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PA  THS.        305 

of  his  co-writers,  ill-natured  and  bitter,  but  very 
clever.  But  the  game  was  not  worth  the  candle. 
His  satire  is  the  Valhalla  of  dunces.  Many  of 
those  whom  he  transfixes  would  be  completely  for 
gotten  but  for  being  thus  transfixed.  When  he 
rises  higher,  he  writes  Essays  on  Criticism  and 
on  Man,  containing  a  'great  deal  of  terse  sense, 
but  there  seems  to  be  no  especial  reason  why 
they  should  be  written  in  verse.  His  epistle 
from  Eloise  to  Abelard  is  intended  to  be  intense 
and  pathetic,  and  is  —  ratherish,  as  Charles  Lamb 
would  say.  His  letters,  both  in  prose  and  verse, 
are  very  readable,  yet  hardly  like  real  letters. 
Of  him  and  his  contemporaries  it  may  be  said,  in 
general,  that  they  conceived  meanly  and  executed 
finely. 

We  approach  Addison,  the  gentle,  shy,  modest, 
courteous,  benevolent  man  whom  Pope  hated  and 
satirized,  with  feelings  nearer  akin  to  tenderness. 
He  too,  like  Dryden,  "  married  discord  in  a  noble 
wife,"  and  domestic  unhappiness  helped  to  fix  al 
most  the  only  stain  that  sullies  his  fair  name.  His 
poetry  would  hardly  have  rescued  his  name  from 
oblivion,  though  his  hymns  are  still  sung  in  all  our 
churches ;  but,  not  great  himself  in  poetry,  he 
illustrated  the  greatness  of  others.  It  was  his 
criticisms  that  led  people  back  to  Milton.  He 
showed  the  treasures  that  lay  hidden  in  our  old 
ballads,  and  did  much  to  arouse  once  more  the 
spirit  of  true  poetry.  But  his  name  is  insepara- 


306          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

bly  connected  with  the  rise  of  periodical  litera 
ture.  In  1709  Richard  Steele,  a  warm-hearted, 
good-natured,  dissipated,  troublesome  friend  of 
Addison's,  of  excellent  principles  and  execrable 
practices,  himself  a  writer  of  no  small  merit,  be 
gan  to  issue  "  The  Tatler,"  which  in  1711  was  suc 
ceeded  by  "The  Spectator,"  —  a  combination  of 
novel,  newspaper,  quarterly  review,  and  monthly 
magazine.  To  both,  Addison  contributed  a  large, 
and  by  far  the  most  valuable  part.  It  is  here 
that  he  shines  out  in  the  fulness  of  his  soft  splen 
dor.  His  nice  observation,  his  delicate  humor,  his 
playful  wit,  the  beautiful  grotesqueness  of  his  con  • 
ceptions,  the  full  outline  and  warm  coloring  of 
his  portraits,  the  combination  of  a  keen  sense  of 
the  ridiculous  with  the  largest  charity  and  the 
profoundest  reverence,  the  singular  grace,  ease, 
and  refinement  of  his  style,  the  purity  and  noble 
ness  of  his  sentiments,  the  sincerity  and  depth  of 
his  religious  feeling,  have  given  him  a  place  in  our 
respect  and  affections  second  to  few,  and  have 
placed  the  Spectator  in  the  honorable  rank  of  the 
English  classics. 

Very  different  from  Addison  in  tone  and  temper 
is  the  sour,  severe,  Ishmaelitic  Jonathan  Swift,  a 
clergyman  whose  errant  life,  and  especially  whose 
conduct  toward  women,  and  particularly  towards 
the  two  who  sacrificed  life  and  peace  to  him, 
can  be  excused  and  even  accounted  for  only  on 
the  supposition  of  insanity,  or  some  constitutional 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PATHS.        307 

moral  deformity,  —  a  coarse,  shrewd,  masculine, 
ferocious  writer.  His  "  Gulliver's  Travels  "  is 
the  story  of  a  shipwrecked  sailor  who  finds  him 
self  cast  away  in  Liliput,  a  land  whose  inhabit 
ants  are  so  small  that  he  strides  without  difficulty 
over  their  loftiest  edifices,  and  has  to  walk  with 
the  greatest  care  to  keep  from  crushing  the  people 
by  the  dozen.  Another  shipwreck  leaves  him  in 
Brobdignag,  to  whose  inhabitants  he  is  as  small  as 
the  Liliputians  were  to  him.  The  relation  of  his 
experience  in  these  two  countries  is  a  keen  and 
amusing  satire  on  the  follies  of  mankind.  By  tak 
ing  from  their  setting  many  of  the  points  about 
which  men  have  disputed  with  the  utmost  inten 
sity,  and  by  representing  them  among  his  little 
people,  he  shows  their  real  frivolity.  His  "  Battle 
of  the  Books "  is  a  satire  upon  a  fierce  contro 
versy  waged  upon  the  respective  merits  of  ancient 
and  modern  writers  in  general,  and  upon  the  gen 
uineness  of  the  "  Epistles  of  Phalaris  "  in  particu 
lar.  "  The  Tale  of  a  Tub  "  casts  similar  ridicule 
upon  ecclesiastical  disputes,  and  stood  sadly  in  the 
way  of  his  promotion.  One  characteristic  of  his 
odd  inventions  is  the  air  of  reality  which  he  gives 
them.  Pie  is  perfectly  grave,  earnest,  and  cir 
cumstantial.  He  speaks  with  as  much  apparent 
accuracy,  reflectiveness,  and  philosophy,  as  if  he 
were  relating  the  most  momentous  history.  His 
polemical  writings  had  great  weight,  and  affected 
the  destinies  of  Europe. 


308          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

Boswell,  Mrs.  Thrale,  and  Madame  d'Arblay, 
have  made  us  better  acquainted  with  Samuel 
Johnson  than  we  are  with  most  of  our  neighbors. 
Johnson  the  man  is  far  more  interesting  than 
Johnson  the  writer.  His  verses  are  remembered 
for  his  sake,  and  not  he  for  his  verses'  sake.  His 
Dictionary,  the  fruit  of  eight  years'  toil,  was  val 
uable  in  its  day,  but  has  been  superseded.  His 
"  Rasselas  "  is  said  to  have  ~been  written  to  defray 
the  expenses  of  his  mother's  funeral.  It  coines 
under  the  head  of  Romance,  but  would  be  rather 
heavy  to  the  romance-readers  of  the  present  day. 
"  The  Rambler,"  a  periodical  paper,  somewhat  af 
ter  the  fashion  of  the  Spectator,  was  conducted  and 
mostly  written  by  Johnson.  It  lacks  the  sprightli- 
ness  and  versatility  of  the  Spectator,  but  it  has  a 
certain  imposing  stateliness.  His  "  Tour  to  the 
Hebrides  "  is  as  favorable  to  the  Scotch  as  could 
have  been  expected  from  one  who  hated,  or  pre 
tended  to  hate  them,  so  thoroughly.  His  "  Lives 
of  the  Poets"  reveals  his  prejudices  in  the  selec 
tion,  rejection,  and  treatment  of  his  subjects, — 
though  the  selection  -is  perhaps  the  work  of  the 
bookseller  rather  than  his  own,  —  and  is  not 
always  trustworthy,  but  was  received  with  great 
favor,  and  is  still  read.  His  style  is  elaborate, 
Latinized,  and  inverted,  and  has  been  greatly  imi 
tated  and  ridiculed ;  but  there  is  something  pleas 
ing  in  the  pompous,  balanced,  antithetic  roll  of  his 
sentences.  His  talk  is  incomparable.  Everybody 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PATHS.       309 

says  a  good  thing  occasionally,  but  Johnson  kept 
saying  good  things  all  the  time.  He  would  drop 
pearls  enough  at  the  breakfast-table  to  make  com 
mon  people  brilliant  for  a  year.  His  conversa 
tion  was  as  finished  and  as  well  arranged  as  his 
writings.  His  power  of  repartee,  his  sarcasm,  his 
wit  and  weight,  his  preparedness,  his  felicity  and 
fertility  of  illustration  are  astonishing.  His  life 
was  a  romance.  In  his  youth,  he  was  miserably 
poor  and  proud.  In  his  maturity,  he  was  the 
lawgiver  and  king  of  the  literary  world.  He 
married  a  coarse,  ugly,  and  frivolous  woman, 
twice  as  old  as  himself,  and  was  devoted  .to 
her.  He  was  an  upright  and  a  sincere  Chris 
tian,  yet  through  fear  of  death  was  all  his  life 
time  subject  to  bondage.  When  he  was  rich 
enough  to  have  a  house,  he  filled  it  with  blind, 
poor,  and  impotent  folks,  and  endured  all  their 
fretfulness,  and  dramatized  their  fights.  For  the 
rest,  how  huge,  ugly,  short-sighted,  awkward, 
rude,  dogmatic,  superstitious,  prejudiced,  coward 
ly,  brave,  independent,  slovenly,  fastidious,  ten 
der-hearted,  he  was,  —  how  he  lorded  it  over  Bos- 
well,  and  lectured  Chesterfield,  and  petted  Fanny 
Burney,  and  bullied  Fanny  Brown,  and  brushed 
the  books  with  his  eyelashes,  and  hated  to  go  to 
bed,  and  made  people  sit  up  half  the  night  to  talk 
to  them,  and  ground  out  doggerel  rhymes  on  the 
tea,  and  browbeat,  protected,  and  mothered  Gold 
smith,  —  is  it  not  all,  and  a  great  deal  more,  writ 
ten  in  the  chronicles  aforesaid  ? 


310         SKIRMISHES  AXD  SKETCHES. 

Goldsmith  follows  naturally  in  the  wake  of  John 
son,  though  utterly  unlike  him  ;  —  Goldsmith,  the 
gentle,  generous,  thriftless,  wann-hearted*  simple, 
blundering,  bashful  Irishman,  "  who  wrote  like  an 
angel  and  talked  like  poor  Poll "  ;  who  would  give 
all  his  blankets  away  to  poor  people,  and  then  rip 
open  his  feather-bed  and  creep  inside  to  get  warm  ; 
who  knew  no  better  way  to  put  out  his  candle  than 
to  throw  his  slipper  at  it ;  who  had  to  keep  his  hat 
with  him  at  parties  to  cover  up  the  stain  on  his 
peach-bloom  coat.  Laughed  at  by  the  wits,  living 
always  from  hand  to  mouth,  with  a  legion  of  poor 
relations  behind  him,  the  drudge  and  slave  of  the 
booksellers,  he  preserved  throughout,  his  unvary 
ing  sweetness.  His  writings  have  a  finish  and 
elegance  that  would  hardly  be  expected  from 
him,  and  which  did  surprise  his  superficial  con 
temporaries  so  much  that  they  laid  the  merit  at 
Johnson's  door,  and  poor  Oliver  bungled,  and 
confirmed  the  suspicion.  His  "  Traveller "  and 
"  Deserted  Village  "  are  gently,  tearfully,  archly, 
and  naturally  charming.  "The  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field"  is  a  unique  little  gem,  full  of  Goldsmith; 
though  Johnson  berated  it,  after  having  read  and 
sold  it  to  keep  Goldsmith  out  of  prison.  His  mis 
cellaneous  writings  are  numerous.  He  touched 
upon  science,  history,  literature,  life,  and  manners ; 
and  everything  which  he  touched  he  adorned.  His 
satire  is  good-natured,  his  amiability  inexhaustible, 
his  style  easy,  natural,  and  pleasing. 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PATHS.        311 

James  Thomson,  the  day-star  of  Wordsworth, 
the  admired  of  school-girls  and  school-boys,  wrote 
"  The  Seasons,"  and  took  his  descriptions  first 
hand  from  Nature,  wherefore  his  poem  is  likely 
to  live.  It  is  in  parts  well  known,  and  widely  ad 
mired,  as  its  noble  diction  and  catholic  and  truly 
pious  spirit  deserve.  A  shorter  poem,  "  The  Cas 
tle  of  Indolence,"  is  written  in  the  Spenserian 
measure  and  manner,  and  has  much  of  the  spirit 
of  Spenser,  combined  with  a  grand,  energetic 
manliness. 

Edward  Young  wrote  "  Night  Thoughts  "  occa 
sioned  by  the  death  of  his  wife  and  two  children. 
It  is  divided  into  nine  books,  eight  of  which,  I  can 
depose  and  say,  leave  only  a  general,  dismal  im 
pression  ;  yet  there  does  not  seem  to  be  so  much 
real  grief  in  it  as  in  Tennyson's  little  four  stan 
zas,  — 

"  Break  —  break  —  break  — 
On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  0  sea." 

Thomas  Gray  is  polished,  classical,  artistic,  schol 
arly,  and  sometimes  a  little  stiff,  though  he  could 
unbend  in  prose,  and  occasionally  in  verse.  His 
"  Bard  "  is  spirited  and  stirring.  The  "  Elegy  in 
a  Country  Churchyard  "  is  a  mosaic,  —  not  to  be 
improved.  He  and  Collins  wrote  but  little,  but 
on  that  little  their  fame  rests  securely.  Nothing 
passed  carelessly  through  their  fastidious  hands. 
Colh'ns  has  more  fire,  and  tenderness,  and  pathos 
than  Gray.  His  Odes  stand  high,  though  they 


312          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

are  probably  read  by  very  few.     "  To  Liberty"  is 
a  splendid  poem. 
Cliatterton, 

"  The  marvellous  boy, 
The  sleepless  soul  that  perished  in  his  pride," 

drained  the  cup  of  misery  to  the  dregs,  and  dashed 
it  down  in  passionate  despair.  In  all  literature 
can  scarcely  be  found  a  story  more  profoundly  sad 
than  his.  Wandering,  a  little  child,  in  the  beauti 
ful  old  church  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe,  of  which  his 
ancestors  had  been  the  sextons  for  many  gen 
erations,  images  of  the  past  thronged  in  upon  his 
soul,  and  peopled  the  dim  galleries  and  the  solemn 
aisles.  From  the -strange,  dreamy,  isolated  life  of 
his  childhood,  there  came  forth  a  series  of  poems, 
which  he  professed  to  have  discovered  in  an  old 
chest  in  the  church,  in  the  manuscript  of  one 
Thomas  Rowley,  a  priest  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
These  poems  are  now  generally  believed  to  have 
been  written  by  himself,  and,  as  the  productions 
of  a  boy,  are  wonderful.  A  succession  of  forged 
documents  —  poems,  histories,  chronicles  —  issued 
from  the  fabulous  chest,  and  astonished  the  good 
people  of  Bristol.  Flushed  with  success,  he  went 
up  to  London  to  try  his  fortunes  in  the  great 
world,  but  the  great  world  knew  him  not.  Four 
months  of  brilliant  hopes  and  small  fruition,  of 
incessant  and  wonderful  writing  and  little  money, 
of  boyish  boasting  and  generous  gifts  to  mother 
and  sister  at  home,  and  genius,  poverty,  obscurity, 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PA  THS.        313 

and  starvation  for  himself  in  London, — and  one 
summer  morning  closed  the  scene.  Impatient  of 
fate,  and  but  vaguely  acquainted  with  God,  he 
swallowed  poison  and  died,  August  24,  1770,  at 
the  age  of  seventeen  years,  nine  months.  He  was 
buried  among  paupers  in  a  nameless  grave.  A 
few  days  after,  a  distinguished  literary  gentleman 
went  down  to  Bristol  to  inquire  into  his  case  and 
provide  for  him.  But  he  had  taken  his  case  into 
his  own  hands. 

A  softer  sadness  hangs  around  the  name  of 
Cowper,  whose  sweet  hymns  have  made  that 
name  a  household  word.  Sensitive  and  shrinking 
as  a  woman,  yet  without  effeminacy,  the  ways  of 
the  world  were  too  rough  for  him,  and  angels 
came  and  ministered  unto  him.  During  a  large 
part  of  his  life  he  was  afflicted  with  a  settled 
melancholy,  which  more  than  once  deepened  into 
positive  insanity;  but  friendly  hands  tended  him 
with  motherly  love  and  care,  and  kept  the  clouds 
apart  for  the  sunshine  to  drift  through.  Human 
nature  never  looks  more  lovable  than  when  we 

see  it  ever 

"  Beside  him,  true  and  loving." 

Mrs.  Unwin's  long  devotion,  Lady  Austin's  and 
Lady  Hesketh's  more  playful  but  not  less  tender 
attention,  the  Throckmortons'  delicate  kindness, 
—  all  this  and  much  more  not  only  relieves  the 
gloom  of  Cowper's  life  and  memory,  but  encir 
cles  them  with  a  soft  and  saintly  glory.  So,  sur- 

14 


314          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

rounded  by  gentle  ministrations,  God  gave  his  be 
loved  sleep. 

His  poetry  has  enjoyed  a  rare  popularity.  A 
warm,  sincere,  genial,  catholic,  joyous,  religious 
sentiment  pervaded  it.  It  is  alike  inspired  with 
a  love  of  God,  of  Nature,  and  of  man.  Yet  he 
is  capable  of  honest  and  trenchant  indignation. 
Though  gentle,  he  has  no  namby-pambyism.  The 
tenderest  and  deepest  sympathy  and  pity  are  found 
in  connection  with  a  brilliant  wit  and  sharp  satire. 
In  style,  he  is  clear,  vigorous,  and  idiomatic ;  nor 
is  he  removed  either  in  matter  or  manner  from  the 
sphere  of  common  life.  Throwing  off  the  ornate 
and  elaborate  fashion  which  Pope  had  established, 
he  set  up  a  new,  trusting  Nature,  and  became 
the  forerunner  of  the  nineteenth  century.  His 
letters  are  unaffectedly  simple,  playful,  wise,  and 
delightful. 

And  yet  another  name  adorns  the  annals  of  this 

age,— 

"A  name 

That  calls,  when  brimmed  her  festal  cup, 
A  nation's  glory  and  her  shame 
In  silent  sadness  up." 

With  a  genius  whose  scope  and  strength  his  short 
life  scarcely  more  than  essayed,  Robert  Burns 
stood  up,  self-assertive,  before  the  world,  and  the 
world  —  made  him  an  exciseman.  Battling  with 
the  wolf  which  stood  always  at  his  door,  he  found 
in  poetry  a  solace  for  toil,  anxiety,  insult,  and  mis 
ery,  —  nay,  a  rapt  delight  which  raised  him  above 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PATHS.        315 

it  all ;  and  so,  in  spite  of  grinding  poverty  and 
stinging  neglect,  he 

"  Walked  in  glory  and  in  joy, 
Following  his  plough  along  the  mountain-side." 

Inexhaustibly  rich  in  all  that  makes  a  man  ;  "  dow 
ered  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn,  the 
love  of  love,"  yet  often  overborne  by  the  violence 
of  his  passions,  and  often  overwhelmed  with  re 
morse  for  their  indulgence,  he  bound  the  hearts  of 
his  countrymen  to  himself  with  a  bond  which  time 
only  tightens  and  strengthens.  His  songs  came  up 
fresh  and  glowing  from  his  great,  tender,  honest, 
fiery  heart,  and  go  deep  into  the  heart  of  human 
ity.  The  indwelling  dignity  of  man  was  the  first 
article  of  his  creed,  and  he  maintained  it  with 
all  the  force  of  his  sturdy,  glorious  nature.  But 
every  chord  of  the  heart  thrills  to  his  touch,  and 
the  eye  fills  or  the  cheek  flames  at  his  will.  In 
other  poetry  than  songs,  he  is  great.  "  The  Cot 
ter's  Saturday  Night "  is  a  Dutch  painting  for  ac 
curacy  and  minuteness  of  detail,  with  the  Burns 
spirit  shining  through  it,  and  diffusing  a  golden  at 
mosphere.  "  Tarn  O'Shanter  "  is  without  a  rival. 

The  reign  of  the  novelists  began  in  the  eigh 
teenth  century. 

Daniel  Defoe,  dying  in  1731,  wrote  many  pam 
phlets  and  novels,  only  one  of  which,  the  inimita 
ble  and  immortal  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  is  exten 
sively  read ;  but  that  is  read  enough  to  make  up 
for  the  oblivion  of  the  others. 


316          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

Harry  Fielding  added  the  unsophisticated  Par 
son  Adams,  Amelia,  Squire  Western,  and  Joseph 
Andrews  to  the  picture-gallery  of  literature,  and 
poured  out  in  his  novels  wit  enough,  and  power 
enough  to  stock  a  score  of  modern  ones  of  the 
common  type. 

Clarissa  Harlowe  and  Sir  Charles  Grandison 
stalked  statelily  through  Richardson's  novels,  and 
roused  an  interest  which  they  can  never  again 
awaken. 

Laurence  Sterne's  "  Sentimental  Journey,"  and 
"  Tristram  Shandy,"  are  whimsical,  indescribable 
books,  with  their  irregular  chapters,  some  only 
three  or  four  lines  long,  and  some  beginning  or 
ending  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence.  A  good  deal 
of  his  sentiment  is  lackadaisical,  especially  when 
one  knows  that  he  was  a  bad,  hard-hearted  man. 

Sly  little  Fanny  Burney  hid  in  a  corner  and 
wrote  a  novel  which  blocked  tip  with  ducal  coaches 
the  streets  that  led  to  the  circulating  library,  made 
such  men  as  Burke  and  Reynolds  sit  up  all  night 
to  read  the  adventures  of  u  Evelina,"  and  was  the 
forerunner  of  the  more  natural  and  purer  novels 
of  our  own  time. 

Horace  Walpole,  the  aristocratic  tenant  of 
Strawberry  Hill,  wrote  "  The  Castle  of  Otranto," 
an  Italian  romance,  —  more  pretentious  than  his 
sharp,  malicious,  witty,  gossiping,  blast?  Letters, 
but  not  half  so  readable.  Mrs.  Radcliffe  terri 
fied  the  nervous  with  impossible  horrors,  Hannah 


A  RAMBLE  IN  THE  OLD  PATHS.        317 

More  sent  out  "  Ccelebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife," 
and  the  Eighteenth  Century  was  gathered  to  its 
fathers,  and  the  Nineteenth  reigned  in  its  stead. 

Now,  if  you  knew  all  this  before,  you  will  read 
it  with  great  delight ;  if  you  did  not  know  it,  it 
may  perhaps  serve  your  turn  in  lack  of  a  better 
guide. 


XXVI. 


A    COUNTERCH ARM. 


T  has  been  said  that  the  very  best  time 
to  offer  your  love  to  a  woman  is  direct 
ly  after  her  own  love  has  been  trifled 
with  by  a  third  person.  When  a  grace 
less  fellow,  who  had  possessed  himself  of  the  gem 
which  he  had  not  the  soul  to  appreciate,  who  had 
esteemed  carelessly,  and  worn  lightly,  what  you 
would  give  your  life  to  win,  has  at  length  tossed 
it  away,  or  suffered  it  to  fall  from  him,  then,  say 
the  philosophers,  is  your  time.  The  tendrils  of  a 
heart,  rudely  rent  from  the  strength  which  they 
had  clasped,  will  close  with  blind,  instinctive  cling 
ing  around  the  first  support  that  offers. 

In  a  matter  like  this,  there  is  a  great  deal  to  be 
said  on  both  sides ;  but  I  rather  think  it  is  so. 
Here  is  our  Columbia,  this  fair  young  land,  whose 
name  is  breathed  first  in  our  morning  and  evening 
prayer ;  who  is  entwined  now  with  all  that  is  high 
and  holy  in  life ;  whose  very  dust  is  dear  to  us ; 
whom  in  prosperity  we  berated  soundly,  but  over 


A    COUNTERCHARM.  319 

whom  now,  in  an  agony  so   fearful  that  in   the 
morning  we  say,  Would  God  it  were  even !  and  at 
even,  Would  God  it  were  morning !  we  bend  with 
a  sacred  furor  of  tenderness ;  —  this   lovely  and 
beloved  daughter  of  the  nations  has  been  scorned 
and  spurned  by  England.     And  turning  away  in 
the   passion   of    our   disappointment,    we    behold 
over  against  her  France,   la  belle  France,  sunny 
land  of  apple-orchards  and  olive-groves  and  vine- 
clad  hills ;  land  of  Trouveur  and  Troubadour ;  of 
sweet  Provence  song  and  wild  minstrel  music ; 
of  rivers  whose  names  are  a  tinkling  waterfall ; 
of  valleys  all  a-quiver  with  golden-throated  birds ; 
—  unhappy  France,  that  rose  up  maddened  from 
her  humiliation,  unfurling  her  silken  banners  but 
to  trail  them  in  the  dust,  flashing  aloft  her  golden 
lilies  too  quickly  fouled  with  crimson  stains,  wild 
for  revenge  and  drunk  with  blood,  whelming  in  a 
common  ruin  the  monuments  of  her  degradation, 
the  castles  of  her  despair,  the  altars  of  her  faith, 
and  the  pillar  of  her  hopes; — suffering,  sad-eyed 
France,  to  whom  Liberty  came,  a  Nemesis,  with 
flaming  eyes  and  fierce,  fixed  lips,  driving  her  char 
iot  of  fire  over  the  writhing  limbs  and  throbbing 
hearts  of  her  own  worshippers ;  —  faithful  France, 
wooing  an  idea  through  seventy  years  of  fruitless 
endeavor,  loving  not  wisely  but  too  well,  now  put 
ting  forth  all  her  strength  in  one  frantic  effort, 
then    sinking   into  the    torpor  of  utter  weariness 
and  despair ;  —  wayward  and  graceful  France  ;  — 


320          SKIR^^SHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

blind  and  beautiful  France,  that  now  in  a  strong, 
unrelaxing  grasp  lies  panting  and  prostrate,  yet 
with  an  awful  vitality  which  no  chains  can  con 
fine,  no  threats  intimidate,  no  blood  subdue,  bid 
ing  her  tune. 

Now  I  do  not  know  whether  it  would  be  quite 
safe  to  throw  ourselves  unhesitatingly  into  the  arms 
of  France  ;  but  surely,  if  she  has  many  more  such 
men  as  Tocqueville  and  Gasparin,  it  would  be  no 
leap  in  the  dark.  Is  there  another  nation  on  the 
earth  that  has  produced  a  single  mind  with  the 
sagacity  to  discern,  and  the  ability  to  expound,  the 
spirit  of  our  institutions  as  these  two  men  have 
done  ?  Long  may  Gasparin 's  memoir  remain  un 
written.  Tocqueville  has  already  "gone  over  to 
the  majority,"  and  a  loving  hand  has  penned  a 
brief  and  beautiful  record  of  his  pure,  noble  life. 
I  do  not  design  to  give  even  a  synopsis  of  his 
book,  "Democracy  in  America,"  or  his  Memoir, 
but  only  to  call  attention  to  a  few  striking  points 
in  them,  because  both  seem  eminently  fit  for  the 
times  on  which  we  have  fallen. 

It  is  little  to  know  that  Alexis  de  Tocqueville 
was  born  in  Paris,  July  29, 1805,  or  that  his  father 
was  Prefect  of  Metz,  and  Peer  of  France.  We 
are  more  interested  to  read  that  he  set  out  early 
in  search  of  truth.  Disheartened  in  his  boyhood 
by  the  impotence  of  human  reason,  he  writes 
sadly  :  "  If  I  were  desired  to  classify  human 
miseries,  I  should  do  it  in  this  order: — 1.  Sick- 


A    COUNTERCHARM.  321 

ness.  2.  Death.  3.  Doubt."  It  Avas  in  pursuit 
of  truth  that  he  made  his  ever-memorable  visit 
to  America.  There  are  many  still  living  who 
will  remember  the  interest  that  was  awakened  by 
the  two  young  frenchmen,  well-born  and  highly 
educated,  who  undertook  a  thirty-five  days'  sea- 
voyage  for  the  purpose  of  exploring  our  public 
archives,  watching  the  practical  working  of  our 
laws,  threading  the  stone  passages  of  our  prisons, 
and  penetrating  the  almost  impenetrable  forests 
of  wild  Michigan,  —  making,  in  fact,  a  recon 
naissance  of  this  Western  world ;  at  once  investi 
gating  the  experiments  of  a  novel  civilization,  and 
laying  bare  their  souls  to  the  sublime  solitude 
where  Nature  had  not  yet  bowed  before  the  hand 
of  man.  Stronger  than  any  impression  made  by 
the  visit  of  these  young  men,  is  the  recollection 
of  the  book  which  one  of  them  wrote  after  his  re 
turn, —  a  book  of  whose  wisdom  every  day  is  add 
ing  fresh  proofs,  whose  sagacity  seems  sometimes 
to  have  been  almost  inspiration,  whose  prophecies 
of  1835  are  the  history  of  1862.  It  is  most  re 
freshing  to  turn  aside  from  the  "  weak,  washy, 
everlasting  flood "  of  egotistic  trash,  with  which 
British  tourists  have  deluged  us,  to  the  calm, 
philosophic,  statesmanlike  work  of  Tocqueville's 
"  Democracy  in  America."  He  was  impelled  by 
other  motives  than  theirs.  He  had  no  prejudices 
to  strengthen,  no  pique  to  gratify,  no  vanity  to  flat 
ter.  He  never  stooped  to  unmanly  and  frivolous 
u*  u 


822          SKI  KM!  SHE  S  AND  SKETCHES. 

motives ;  he  never  descended  to  personal  details ; 
lie  did  not  care  to  build  up  a  flimsy  fame  by  flat 
tering  his  countrymen  and  ridiculing  his  hosts. 
He  did  not  travel  to  confirm  a  theory  or  to  decide 
a  question  of  beef-steak  with  or  without  butter. 
France  was  then  in  the  mid-agony  of  that  long 
revolution  which,  beginning  before  he  was  born, 
is  not  finished  now  that  he  has  passed  away.  He 
saw  that  she  was  surely  drifting  toward  a  democ 
racy  for  which  he  feared  that  she  was  unprepared. 
The  problem  was,  how  to  unite  liberty  with  equal 
ity, —  how  to  prevent  democracy  from  one  day 
throwing  itself  into  the  arms  of  despotism,  as  a  last 
refuge  against  anarchy.  In  this  New  World  was 
a  democracy  in  the  full  tide  of  experiment,  and  he 
came  over  to  study  it  for  France.  America  was 
the  subject  of  his  book,  but  France  was  continu 
ally  in  his  heart.  While  he  watched  us,  he 
silently  adjusted  our  institutions  to  France,  and 
pointed  out  their  fitness  or  unfitness  for  her.  He 
had  neither  motive  nor  inclination  to  magnify  our 
faults,  or  to  ignore  our  virtues.  '  He  spoke  the 
language  neither  of  eulogy  nor  of  slander. 

Striving  not  to  dogmatize  or  despise,  but  to  learn 
and  teach,  he  saw,  as  perhaps  no  other  ever  did, 
the  real  character  and  bearings  of  this  grand  dem 
ocratic  "  experiment,"  and,  returning  to  his  belov 
ed  France  and  "  secluding  himself  during  these 
two  years  from  society,  spending  the  day-time,  in 
order  to  avoid  interruption,  in  a  lodging,  the  secret 


A   COUNTERCHARM.  323 

of  which  vvras  known  only  to  very  few  of  his  friends, 
sustained  by  the  flattering  dreams  which  always 
visit  a  young  author,  and  by  the  attachment  which 
he  had  already  formed  to  the  lady  whom  he  was 
soon  to  marry,  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  intoxica 
tion  which  generally  attends  the  continuous  cre 
ative  action  of  mind." 

As  a  result,  he  has  left  alike  in  the  land  which 
he  visited  and  in  the  land  for  which  he  visited,  a 
monument  more  durable  than  brass.  Aiming  only 
at  the  highest,  he  gained  all  honors.  Although 
he  was  collating,  comparing,  inferring,  presenting, 
with  a  single  eye  to  the  welfare  of  his  country, 
America  holds  his  name  in  a  veneration  which 
France  may  equal,  but  can  hardly  excel.  His 
book  passed  through  fourteen  editions  at  Paris, 
and  has  been  translated  into  nearly  all  the  lan 
guages  of  modern  Europe.  Its  author  was  ad 
judged  the  Monthyon  prize  by  the  French  Insti 
tute,  —  a  prize  given  annually  for  the  work  of  the 
highest  moral  utility  that  has  been  produced  dur 
ing  the  year ;  and  in  this  case,  to  mark  a  special 
distinction,  the  prize  was  increased  from  six  thou 
sand  francs,  its  usual  amount,  to  eight  thousand. 

The  reception  which  it  met  with  in  America 
shows  that  we  can  bear  censure  if  it  be  kind  and 
judicious.  We  are  not  so  "  thin-skinned "  but 
that  we  can  tolerate  the  keen  knife  in  a  skilful 
and  friendly  hand.  What  frets  us  is  the  villanous 
little  gad-flies  that  sting  here,  and  stab  there,  teas- 


324          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

ing  everywhere,  but  with  not  the  dimmest  percep 
tion  as  to  whether  they  have  thrust  their  lancets 
into  a  vein  or  an  artery,  and  generally  in  a  state 
of  profound  and  placid  ignorance  as  to  the  exist 
ence  of  both  veins  and  arteries. 

Tocqueville  is  everywhere  observant,  discrimi 
nating,  just.  His  mistakes  are  marvellously  few. 
He  knows  what  is  incident,  and  what  is  essence, 
—  what  is  peculiar  to  us,  and  what  is  common  to 
the  race.  His  work  is  perhaps  the  best  exhibi 
tion  of  our  institutions  that  has  ever  been  given. 
Nowhere  else  can  "Young  America"  find,  with 
in  so  brief  a  compass,  a  regum£  so  exhaustive, 
and  an  exposition  so  lucid.  He  sees  as  clearly 
into  the  genius  of  the  country  as  a  native,  and 
looks  upon  it  as  impartially  as  if  it  were  an  an 
tiquity.  He  is  consequently  free  from  all  petti 
ness, —  broad,  and  deep,  and  high. 

The  book  should  be  read  and  studied  much 
more  than  it  is  in  America,  and  we  welcome 
every  effort  to  bring  it  before  the  people,  whether 
its  beauty  be  made  to  appeal  to  the  eye,  or  its 
cheapness  to  the  purse.  Our  people  need  more 
sound  political  information.  A  self-governing 
people  should  be  a  self  -  understanding  people. 
The  work  should  be  made  a  text-book  in  col 
leges,  that  at  least  no  graduate  should  lack  n. 
familiar  acquaintance  with  its  large  truths.  No 
where  else  do  we  find  so  calm,  unprejudiced, 
and  impartial  a  statement  of  the  principles  which 


.A    COUNTERCHARM.  325 

constitute,  the  dangers  which  beset,  and  the  oppor 
tunities  which  await  Democracy.  Here  our  peo 
ple  may  learn  the  origin  and  meaning  of  many 
usages  with  whose  workings  they  are  familiar, 
but  of  whose  spirit  they  are  profoundly  igno 
rant.  Here  they  may  discern  the  dangers  be 
tween  which  society  oscillates,  —  of  despotism  on 
the  one  side,  and  anarchy  on  the  other ;  the  evils 
which  threaten,  and  the  measures  which  may  avert, 
the  destruction  of  our  Republic.  Religion,  educa 
tion,  literature,  commerce,  universal  suffrage,  mu 
nicipal  and  local  authority,  are  here  discussed, 
in  their  relation  to  government,  with  a  compre 
hensiveness  and  candor  which  cannot  fail  to  im 
part  somewhat  of  their  own  elevated  nature  to  him 
who  shall  pass  them  in  review.  A  knowledge  of 
this  book  is  not  so  much  a  matter  of  taste  as  of 
national  life.  Read  backward,  it  gives  the  interior 
history  of  our  rebellion ;  and  it  was  written  thirty 
years  ago.  The  causes  which  wrought  then  are 
working  still,  and  the  better  we  understand  a  de 
mocracy,  the  better  we  shall  enact  it.  It  is  only 
by  a  full  knowledge  of  its  possibilities  that  we  can 
be  saved  from  disaster.  The  lesson  that  we  must 
learn  —  and  from  no  human  source  can  we  learn  it 
better  than  from  this  book — is,  that  a  people  which 
would  govern  itself  wisely  must  be  a  people  intelli 
gent,  virtuous,  and  honorable. 

Tocqueville's  character  was  intrinsically  noble. 
He  was  elevated  to  the  heights  of  abstract  good- 


326          SKIRMISHES  AXD  SKETCHES. 

ness.  His  unselfishness  was  chivalrous.  He  read 
to  his  friend  and  travelling  companion,  Beaumont, 
a  charming  little  work,  "  A  Fortnight  in  the  Wil 
derness,"  who  at  once,  unthinkingly,  predicted  for 
it  a  far  greater  success  than  that  attained  by  his 
own  novel,  laid  in  similar  scenes.  "  At  the  time, 
Tocqueville  said  nothing ;  but  he  had  made  up  his 
mind,  and  nothing  could  ever  induce  him  to  pub 
lish  what  might  trespass  upon  the  ground  chosen 
by  his  friend,  or  appear  as  a  rival  to  his  work." 
That  friend,  worthy  of  a  generosity  so  delicate, 
now  prints,  for  the  first  time,  this  withheld  manu 
script. 

Eminent  by  birth,  fortune,  and  intellect,  Tocque 
ville  surprised  the  worldly-wise  by  marrying  a 
young  English  lady,  who|  apparently,  could  in 
no  wise  advance  his  worldly  interests.  The  wis 
dom  of  his  course,  his  letters  to  his  most  inti 
mate  friends  indicate.  It  may  be  supposed  that 
the  sweetness  of  the  honey-moon  still  lingered 
around  his  pen  when,  a  year  after  his  marriage, 
he  wrote:  "I  cannot  tell  you  the  inexpressible 
charm  which  I  have  found  in  living  so  continually 
with  Marie,  nor  the  treasures  which  I  was  per 
petually  discovering  in  her  heart.  You  know  that 
in  travelling,  stUl  more  than  at  other  times,  my 
temper  is  uneven,  irritable,  and  impatient.  I 
scolded  her  frequently,  and  almost  always  unjust 
ly  "  (this  particular  trait  is  not  held  up  for  imita 
tion  ;  though  women  would  not  generally  object 


A   COUNTEECHARM.  327 

strenuously  to  a  little  unjust  husbandly  scolding,  if 
the  husband  were  Tocqueville !  Cases  alter  cir 
cumstances)  ;  "  and  on  each  occasion  I  discovered 
in  her  inexhaustible  springs  of  tenderness  and  in 
dulgence Although  I  have  great  power 

over  her  mind,  I  see  with  pleasure  that  she  awes 
me ;  and  as  long  as  I  love  her  as  I  now  do,  I  am 
sure  that  I  shall  never  allow  myself  to  be  drawn 
into  anything  wrong."  But  twenty-five  years 
later,  when  Madame  de  Tocqueville,  worn  out  by 
fatigue  and  grief  consequent  upon  his  continued 
illness,  herself  fell  ill,  and  was  confined  to  a  dark 
ened  room,  "  such  was  his  tender  love  for  her,  and 
so  impossible  was  it  for  him  to  live  without  her, 
and  away  from  her,  that,  as  she  could  no  longer  sit 
by  his  bed  of  suffering,  he  succeeded  in  dragging 
himself  to  hers.  But  the  deep  gloom  of  her  room 
increased  his  illness,  and,  yielding  to  a  sort  of 
physical  instinct,  he  escaped  to  the  sunshine,  which 
alone  revived  him.  It  was  a  sad  fate  for  two 
beings  so  necessary  to  each  other,  to  be  able  no 
longer  to  live  together  or  apart.  In  fact,  in  a  few 
minutes,  Tocqueville  returned  to  his  wife's  bed 
side,  and  said,  '  Dear  Marie,  the  sunshine  ceases 
to  do  me  good,  if  to  enjoy  it  I  must  give  up  seeing 
you.'  "  Surely  the  moon  must  have  had  a  honey- 
spring  to  well  up  sweetness  so  long. 

His  ambition  was  pure  and  lofty,  —  "an  ambition 
which,  in  a  free  country,  is  the  first  of  public  vir 
tues  ;  an  ambition  which  is  patriotism,  which  is 


328          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

eagerness  for  the  grandeur  of  the  country  which 
it  aspires  to  govern  through  the  struggles  which 
belong  to  liberty,  by  efforts  never  suspended,  and 
by  successes  due  only  to  merit  and  to  talent." 
The  sensitiveness  of  his  purity  could  not  admit 
the  shadow  of  a  stain.  He  lost  an  election  rather 
than  permit  an  official  recommendation  from  the 
Prime  Minister,  who  was  his  kinsman.  When  his 
friend  Kergorlay  had  compromised  himself  with 
the  government,  Tocqueville,  who  had  joined  it, 
rushed  to  his  support,  "  and  zealously  defended 
him ;  not  as  one  would  generally  defend  a  person 
under  accusation,  but  as  one  would  plead  for  a 
loved  and  honored  friend."  How  different  from 
the  course  which  Bacon  pursued  towards  Essex ! 

His  "  death  was  that  of  a  Christian,  as  had  been 
his  life.  His  mind  was  always  much  disturbed  by 
doubt But  in  the  midst  of  his  greatest  per 
plexities,  he  never  ceased  to  be  sincerely  Christian. 
This  sentiment  amounted  in  him  to  a  passion,  and 
was  even  a  part  of  his  political  creed ;  for  he  be 
lieved  that  there  could  be  no  liberty  without  mo 
rality,  and  no  morality  without  religion The 

great  problem  of  the  destiny  of  man  impressed  him 
with  daily-increasing  awe  and  reverence ;  more  and 
more  piety,  and  gratitude  for  the  Divine  blessings, 
entered  every  day  into  his  actions  and  feelings." 

He  died  on  the  16th  of  April,  1859. 

The  pictures  of  domestic  life,  and  of  mature, 
manly,  and  almost  romantic  friendship,  with  which 


A    COUNTERCHARM.  329 

his  Memoir  abounds,  are  pure,  delightful,  and  ele 
vating.  With  such  hearts  and  homes  in  France, 
surely  her  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

The  letters,  whose  publication  a  death  so  recent 
would  admit,  with  some  extracts  from  Mr.  Senior's 
journal  relating  Tocqueville's  "  Table  Talk,"  make 
up  the  whole  of  the  second,  and  a  part  of  the  first 
volume,  and  are  extremely  interesting  and  valua 
ble.  The  "  Tour  in  Sicily,"  "  A  Fortnight  in  the 
Wilderness,"  "  Visit  to  Lake  Oneida,"  "  France 
before  the  Revolution,"  and  "  The  Consulate," 
are  appended  to  the  Memoir.  There  is  through 
out  the  book,  alike  in  the  writings  of  the  subject 
and  of  the  author  of  the  Memoir,  an  indescrib 
able  nobleness,  an  atmosphere  of  refined  and  lofty 
purity,  of  delicate  generosity,  of  something  be 
yond  and  above  the  materialism  of  commonplace, 
selfish  life,  such  as  men  might  have  breathed  in 
the  Golden  Age. 


XXVII. 

THE  NEW  SCHOOL  OF  BIOGRAPHY. 

'OOR  Rachel,  passing  slowly  away  from 
the  world  that  had  so  applauded  her 
hollow  but  brilliant  career,  tasted  the 
bitterness  of  death  in  reflecting  that 
she  should  so  soon  be  given  over  to  the  worms  and 
the  biographers.  Fortunate  Rachel,  resting  in 
serene  confidence  that  the  two  would  be  fellow- 
laborers  !  It  is  the  unhappy  fate  of  her  survivors 
to  have  reached  a  day  in  which  biographers  have 
grown  impatient  of  the  decorous  delay  which  their 
lowly  coadjutors  demand.  They  can  no  longer 
•wait  for  the  lingering  soul  to  yield  up  its  title- 
deeds  before  they  enter  in  and  take  possession ; 
but,  fired  with  an  evil  energy,  they  outstrip  the 
worms  and  torment  us  before  the  time. 

Curiosity  is  undoubtedly  one  of  the  heaven- 
appointed  passions  of  the  human  animal.  Dear  to 
the  heart  of  man  has  ever  been  his  neighbor's 
business.  Precious  in  the  eyes  of  woman  is  the 
linen-closet  of  that  neighbor's  wife.  During  its 


THE  NEW  SCHOOL  OF  BIOGRAPHY.     331 

tender,  teething  infancy,  the  world's  sobs  could 
always  be  soothed  into  smiles  by  an  open  bureau, 
with  large  liberty  to  upheave  its  contents.  As  the 
infant  world  ascended  from  cambric  and  dimity  to 
broadcloth  and  crinoline,  its  propensity  for  inves 
tigation  grew  stronger.  It  loved  not  bureaus  less, 
but  a  great  many  other  things  more.  What  sad 
consequences  might  have  ensued,  had  this  passion 
been  left  to  forage  for  itself,  no  one  can  tell.  But, 
by  the  wonderful  principle  of  adaptation  which 
obtains  throughout  the  universe,  the  love  of  re 
ceiving  information  is  met  and  mastered  by  the 
love  of  imparting  information.  As  much  pleasure 
as  it  gives  Angelina  to  learn  how  many  towels  and 
table-cloths  go  into  Seraphina's  wedding-outfit,  so 
much,  yea,  more,  swells  in  Cherubella's  bosom  at 
being  able  to  present  to  her  friend  this  apple  from 
the  tree  of  knowledge.  The  worthy  Muggins 
finds  no  small  consolation  for  the  loss  of  his  over 
coat  and  umbrella  from  the  front  entry  in  the 
exhilaration  he  experiences  while  relating  to  each 
member  of  his  ever-revolving  circle  of  friends  the 
details  of  his  loss,  —  the  suspicion,  the  search,  the 
certainty,  —  the  conjectures,  suggestions,  and  emo 
tions  of  himself  and  his  family. 

Hence  these  tears  which  we  are  about  to  shed. 
For,  betwixt  the  love  of  hearing  on  the  one  side, 
and  the  love  of  telling  on  the  other,  small  space 
remains  on  which  one  may  adventure  to  set  the 
sole  of  his  foot  and  feel  safe  from  the  spoiler. 


332          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

There  is  of  course  a  legitimate  gratification  for 
every  legitimate  desire,  —  the  desire  to  know  our 
neighbor's  affairs  among  others.  But  there  is  a 
limit  to  this  gratification,  and  it  is  hinted  at  by 
legal  enactments.  The  law  justly  enough  bounds 
a  man's  power  over  his  possessions.  For  twenty- 
one  years  after  his  generation  has  passed  away,  his 
dead  hand  may  rule  the  wealth  which  its  living 
skill  amassed.  Then  it  dies  another  death,  sinks 
into  a  deeper  grave,  and  has  henceforth  no  more 
power  than  any  sister-clod.  But,  except  as  a 
penalty  for  crime,  the  law  awards  to  a  man  the 
right  to  his  own  possessions  through  life  ;  and  the 
personal  facts  and  circumstances  of  his  life  have 
usually  been  considered  among  his  closest,  most 
inalienable  possessions. 

Alas  that  the  times  are  changed,  and  we  be  all 
dead  men  so  far  as  concerns  immunity  from  publi 
cation  !  There  is  no  manner  of  advantage  in  be 
ing  alive.  The  sole  safety  is  to  lie  flat  on  the 
earth  along  with  one's  generation.  The  moment 
an  audacious  head  is  lifted  one  inch  above  the 
general  level,  pop!  goes  the  unerring  rifle  of 
some  biographical  sharp-shooter,  and  it  is  all  over 
with  the  unhappy  owner.  A  respectable  and  well- 
meaning  man,  suffering  under  the  accumulated 
pains  of  Presidentship,  has  the  additional  and  en 
tirely  undeserved  ignominy  of  being  hawked  about 
the  country  as  the  "  Pioneer  Boy."  A  statesman 
whose  reputation  for  integrity  has  been  worth  mil- 


THE  NEW  SCHOOL  OF  BIOGRAPHY.     333 

lions  to  the  land,  and  whose  patriotism  should  have 
won  him  a  better  fate,  is  stigmatized  in  duodecimo 
as  the  "Ferry  Boy."  An  innocent»and  popular 
Governor  is  fastened  in  the  pillory  under  the  thin 
diso-uise  of  the  "  Bobbin  Boy."  Every  victorious 

e  t/  » 

advance  of  our  grand  army  is  followed  by  a  long 
procession  of  biographical  statistics.  A  brave  man 
leading  his  troops  to  victory  may  escape  the  bul 
lets  and  bayonets  of  the  foe,  but  he  is  sure  to  be 
transfixed  to  the  sides  of  a  newspaper  with  the  pen 
of  some  cannibal  entomologist.  We  are  thrilled 
to-day  with  the  telegram  announcing  the  brilliant 
and  successful  charge  made  by  General  Smith's 
command ;  and  according  to  that  inevitable  law 
of  succession  by  which  the  sun  his  daily  round  of 
duty  runs,  we  shall  be  thrilled  to-morrow  with  the 
startling  announcement  that  "  General  Smith  was 

born  in ,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

Unquestionably,  there  is  somewhere  in  the  land 
a  regularly  organized  biographical  bureau,  by 
which  every  man,  President  or  private,  has  his  lot 
apportioned  him,  —  one  mulcted  in  a  folio,  the 
other  in  a  paragraph.  If  we  examine  somewhat 
closely  the  features  of  this  peculiar  institution,  we 
shall  learn  that  a  distinguishing  characteristic  of 
the  new  school  of  biography  is  the  astonishing  fa 
miliarity  shown  by  the  narrator  with  the  circum 
stances,  the  conversations,  and  the  very  thoughts 
of  remarkable  men  in  their  early  life.  The  inci 
dents  of  childhood  are  usually  forgotten  before  the 


334          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

man's  renown  has  given  them  any  importance  • 
the  few  anecdotes  which  tradition  has  preserved 
are  sc'ized  upon  with  the  utmost  avidity  and  placed 
in  the  most  conspicuous  position ;  but  in  these 
later  books  we  have  illustrious  children  portrayed 
with  a  Pre-Raphaelitic  and  most  prodigal  pencil. 

Take  the  opening  scene  in  a  garden  where 
"  Nat "  —  we  must  protest  against  this  irreverent 
abbreviation  of  the  name  of  that  honored  Governor 
whose  life  in  little  we  are  about  to  behold  —  and 
his  father  are  at  work. 

"  '  There,  Nat,  if  you  plant  and  hoe  your 
squashes  with  care,  you  will  raise  a  nice  parcel 
of  them  on  this  piece  of  ground.  It  is  good  soil 
for  squashes.' 

"  '  How  many  seeds  shall  I  put  into  a  hill  ? '  in 
quired  Nat. 

"  '  Seven  or  eight.  It  is  well  to  put  in  enough, 
as  some  of  them  may  not  come  up,  and  when  they 
get  to  growing  well,  pull  up  all  but  four  in  a  hill. 
You  must  not  have  your  hills  too  near  together,  — 
they  should  be  five  feet  apart,  and  then  the  vines 
will  cover  the  ground  all  over.  I  should  think 
there  would  be  room  for  fifty  hills  on  this  patch  of 
ground.' 

" '  How  many  squashes  do  you  think  I  shall 
raise,  father  ? ' 

"  *  Well,'  said  his  father,  smiling,  '  that  is  hard 
telling.  We  won't  count  the  chickens  before  they 
are  hatched.  But  if  you  are  industrious,  and  take 


THE  NEW  SCHOOL  OF  BIOGRAPHY.     335 

very  good  care  indeed  of  your  vines,  stir  the 
ground  often  and  keep  out  all  the  weeds  and 
kill  the  bugs,  I  have  little  doubt  that  you  will 
get  well  paid  for  your  labor.' 

"'If  I  have  fifty  hills,'  said  Nat,  '  and  four  vines 
in  each  hill,  I  shall  have  two  hundred  vines  in  all; 
and  if  there  is  one  squash  on  each  vine,  there  will 
be  twp  hundred  squashes.' 

" '  Yes ;  but  there  are  so  many  ifs  about  it,  that 
you  may  be  disappointed  after  all.  Perhaps  the 
bugs  will  destroy  half  your  vines.' 

"  '  I  can  kill  the  bugs,'  said  Nat. 

" '  Perhaps  dry  weather  will  wither  them  all 
up.' 

"  '  I  can  water  them  every  day,  if  they  need  it.' 

"  '  That  is  certainly  having  good  courage,  Nat,' 
added  his  father ;  '  but  if  you  conquer  the  bugs, 
and  get  around  the  dry  weather,  it  may  be  too  wet 
and  blast  your  vines,  —  or  there  may  be  such  a 
hail-storm  as  I  have  known  several  times  in  my 
life,  and  cut  them  to  pieces.' 

"  '  I  don't  think  there  will  be  such  a  hail-storm 
this  year ;  there  never  was  one  like  it  since  I  can 
remember.' 

" '  I  hope  there  won't  be,'  replied  his  father. 
'It  is  well  to  look  on  the  bright  side,  and  hope 
for  the  best,  for  it  keeps  the  courage  up.  It  is 
also  well  to  look  out  for  disappointment.  I  know 
a  gentleman  who  thought  he  would  raise  some 
ducks,' "  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 


336          SKIRMISHES  AXD  SKETCHES. 

We  are  told  that  this  scene  was  enacted  about 
thirty-five  years  ago,  and,  as  if  we  should  not  be 
sufficiently  lost  in  admiration  of  that  wonderful 
memory  which  enabled  somebody  to  retain  so  long, 
and  restore  so  unimpaired,  the  words  and  deeds  of 
that  distant  May  morning,  we  are  further  informed 
that  the  author  is  "  obliged  to  pass  over  much  that 
belongs  to  the  patch  of  squashes  "  !  "  Is  it  possi 
ble  ?  "  one  is  led  to  exclaim.  We  should  certainly 
have  supposed  that  this  report  was  exhaustive. 
We  can  hardly  conceive  that  any  further  inter 
est  should  inhere  in  that  patch  of  squashes ;  where 
as  it  seems  that  the  half  was  not  told  us.  Nor  is 
this  the  sole  instance.  Records  equally  minute  of 
conversations  equally  brilliant  are  lavished  on  page 
after  page  with  a  recklessness  of  expenditure  that 
argues  unlimited  wealth,  —  conversations  between 
the  Boy  and  his  father,  between  the  Boy  and  his 
mother,  between  the  Boy's  father  and  mother, 
between  the  Boy's  neighbors  about  the  Boy,  in 
which  his  numerous  excellences  are  set  in  the 
strongest  light,  exhortations  of  the  Boy's  teacher 
to  his  school,  play-ground  talk  of  the  Boy  and  his 
fellow-boys,  —  among  whom  the  Boy  invariably 
stands  head  and  shoulders  higher  than  they.  We 
fear  the  world  of  boys  has  hitherto  been  much 
demoralized  by  being  informed  that  many  distin 
guished  men  were  but  dull  fellows  in  the  school- 
house,  or  unnoticed  on  the  play-ground.  But  we 
have  changed  all  that.  The  Bobbin  Boy  was  the 


THE  NEW  SCHOOL  OF  BIOGRAPHY.     337 

most  industrious,  the  most  persevering,  the  most 
self-reliant,  the  most  virtuous,  the  most  exemplary 
of  all  the  boys  of  his  time.  So  was  the  Ferry  Boy, 
and  the  Pioneer  Boy  so.  "Nat"  —  we  blame  and 
protest,  but  we  join  in  the  plan  of  using  this  un 
dignified  sobriquet  —  Nat  was  the  one  that  swam 
three  rods  under  water  ;  Nat  astonished  the  school 
with  the  eloquence  of  his  declamation  ;  it  was  Nat 
that  got  all  the  glory  of  the  games ;  it  was  of  no 
use  for  any  one  to  try  for  any  prize  where  Nat  was 
a  competitor.  And  as  Nat's  neighbors  thought  of 
Nat,  so  thought  Abe's  —  we  shudder  at  the  sound 
—  Abe's  neighbors  of  Abe,  the  Pioneer  Boy.  Of 
what  Salmon's  neighbors  said  about  Salmon  we  are 
not  so  well  informed  :  but  we  have  no  doubt  they 
often  exclaimed  one  to  another,  — 

"  Was  never  Salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee  !  " 

Nor  are  the  Boys  backward  in  having  a  tolera 
bly  good  opinion  of  their  own  goodness. 

"  Never  swear,  my  son,"  says  Abe's  mother  to 
the  infant  Abe. 

"  I  never  do,"  says  Abraham. 

"  Boys  are  likely  to  want  their  own  way,  and 
spend  their  time  in  idleness,"  says  the  mother  of  a 
President,  upon  another  occasion. 

"  I  sha'n't,"  responds  virtuous  Abraham. 

"Always  speak  the  truth,  my  son." 

"I  do  tell  the  truth,"  was  "Abraham's  usual 
reply." 

15  v 


838          XKlItMlSHES   AND   SKETCHES. 

"  When  a  boy  gets  to  going  to  the  tavern  to 
smoke  and  swear,"  says  Nat's  mother,  "  he  is  al 
most  sure  to  drink,  and  become  a  ruined  man." 

"I  never  do  smoke,  mother,"  replies  Nat,  pour 
ing  cataracts  of  innocence.  "  I  never  go  to  the 
stable  nor  tavern.  I  don't  associate  with  Sam  and 
Ben  Drake,  nor  with  James  Cole,  nor  with  Oliver 
Fowle,  more  than  I  can  help.  For  I  know  they 
are  bad  boys.  I  see  that  the  worst  scholars  at 
school  are  those  who  are  said  to  disobey  their  par 
ents,  and  every  one  of  them  are  poor  scholars,  and 
they  use  profane  language." 

Virtue  so  immaculate  at  so  tender  an  age  seems 
to  us,  we  are  forced  to  admit,  unnatural.  The 
boys  that  have  fallen  in  our  way  have  never  been 
in  the  habit  of  making  profound  moral  reflections, 
and  we  cannot  resist  the  unpleasant  suspicion  that 
Nat  had  just  been  playing  at  marbles  for  "  hav 
ings  "  with  Cole,  Fowle,  and  both  the  Drakes  at 
the  village  inn,  and,  having  found  this  savory  re 
past  too  strong  for  his  digestion,  went  home  to 
his  mother  and  wreaked  his  discomfort  on  edifying 
moral  maxims.  Or  else  he  was  a  prig. 

The  unusual  and  highly  exciting  nature  of  the 
incidents  recorded  in  these  biographies  must  be 
their  excuse  for  a  seeming  violation  of  privacy. 
When  a  rare  gem  is  in  question,  one  must  not  be 
over-scrupulous  about  breaking  open  the  casket. 
What  puerile  prejudice  in  favor  of  privacy  can 
rear  its  head  in  face  of  the  statement  which  tells 


THE  NEW  SCHOOL  OF  BIOGRAPHY.     339 

us  that  at  the  age  of  seven  years  our  honored 
President  "devoted  himself  to  learning  to  read 
with  an  energy  and  enthusiasm  that  insured  suc 
cess'"? —  such  success  that  we '  learn  "he  could 
read  some  when  he  left  school." 

At  the  age  of  nine  he  shot  a  turkey ! 

Soon  after,  —  for  here  we  are  involved  in  a 
chronological  haze,  —  he  began  to  "  take  lessons 
in  penmanship  with  the  most  enthusiastic  ardor." 

Subsequently,  "  there,  on  the  soil  of  Indiana, 
ABRAHAM  LIXCOLN  WROTE  HIS  NAME,  WITH  A 
STICK,  in  large  characters,  — a  sort  of  prophetic 
act,  that  students  of  history  may  love  to  ponder. 
For,  since  that  day,  he  has  '  gone  up  higher,'  and 
written  his  name,  by  public  acts,  on  the  annals  of 
every  State  in  the  Union." 

He  wrote  a  letter. 

He  rescued  a  toad  from  cruel  boys,  —  for, 
though  "  he  could  kill  game  for  food  as  a  neces 
sity,  and  dangerous  wild  animals,  his  soul  shrunk 
from  torturing  even  a  fly."  Dear  heart,  we  can 
easily  believe  that ! 

He  bought  a  Ramsay's  "  Life  of  Washington," 
and  paid  for  it  with  the  labor  of  his  own  hands. 

He  helped  to  save  a  drunkard's  life.  "He 
thought  more  of  the  drunkard's  safety  than  he  did 
of  his  own  ease.  And  there  are  many  of  his  per 
sonal  acquaintances  in  our  land  who  will  bear 
witness,  that,  from  that  day  to  this,  this  amiable 
quality  of  heart  has  won  him  admiring  friends." 


340          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

He  took  a  flat-boat  to  New  Orleans,  and  de 
fended  her  against  the  negroes,  who,  poor  fellows, 
were  not  prophetic  enough  to  see  that  they  were 
plotting  against  their  Deliverer. 

He  "  always  had  much  dry  wit  about  him  that 
kept  oozing  out !  " 

We  have  given  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  main 
incidents  of  his  boyhood,  for  we  cannot  quite  agree 
with  our  author  in  thinking  that  his  "  old  gram 
mar  laid  the  foundation,  in  part,  of  Abraham's 
future  character,"  seeing  that  he  had  "become  the 
most  important  man  in  the  place  "  before  he  stud 
ied  grammar ;  and  we  have  the  same  writer's  au 
thority  for  believing  that  "  the  habits  of  life  are 
usually  fixed  by  the  time  a  lad  is  fifteen  years  of 
age."  Nor  can  we  admit  that  this  grammar  even 
"  taught  him  the  rudiments  of  his  native  lan 
guage,"  when  we  have  been  having  proof  upon 
proof,  for  two  hundred  and  eighty-six  pages,  that 
he  was  already  familiar  with  its  rudiments.  We 
are  equally  sceptical  as  to  whether  it  really 
"  opened  the  golden  gate  of  knowledge  "  for  him  : 
we  should  certainly  say  that  this  gate  had  stood 
ajar,  at  least,  for  years.  Indeed,  that  portion  of 
his  history  which  relates  to  grammar  seems  to  us 
by  far  the  most  unsatisfactory  of  all.  In  his  hon 
esty,  in  his  penmanship,  in  his  kindness  of  heart, 
in  his  wit,  dry  or  damp,  we  feel  a  confidence 
which  not  even  the  shock  of  political  campaigns 
has  been  able  to  move.  But  in  respect  of  gram- 


THE  NEW  SCHOOL  OF  BIOGRAPHY.     341 

mar  we  find  ourselves  in  a  state  of  the  most  pain 
ful  uncertainty.  We  have  never  regarded  it  as 
our  beloved  President's  strong  point,  but  we  have 
considered  any  verbal  defect  more  than  atoned  for 
by  the  hearty,  timely,  sturdy,  plain  sense  which 
appeals  so  directly  and  forcibly  to  .the  good  sense 
of  others.  This  book  calls  up  a  distressing  doubt, 
and  a  doubt  that  strikes  at  vital  interests.  "  Gram 
mar,"  our  President  is  reported  to  have  said  before 
he  had  cast  the  integuments  of  a  grocer's  clerk, 
"  Grammar  is  the  art  of  speaking  and  writing  the 
English  language  with  propriety  !  "  Is  this  defi 
nition,  we  sorrowfully  ask,  becoming  an  American 
citizen  ?  It  has,  indeed,  in  many  respects  the 
qualities  of  a  perfect  definition.  It  is  accurate  ; 
it  is  exhaustive  :  but  it  is  not  loyal.  Coming 
from  the  lips  of  a  subject  of  Great  Britain,  it 
would  not  surprise  us.  An  Englishman  un 
doubtedly  believes  that  grammar,  is  the  art  of 
speaking  and  writing  the  English  language  with 
propriety.  All  the  grammatical  research  that  pre 
ceded  the  establishment  of  his  mother-tongue  was 

O 

but  the  collection  of  fuel  to  feed  the  flame  of  its 
glory ;  all  that  follows  will  be  to  diffuse  the  light 
of  that  flame  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  Greek, 
Latin,  Sanscrit,  were  but  stepping-stones  to  the 
English  language.  Philology  per  se  is  a  myth. 
The  English  language  in  its  completeness  is  the 
completion  of  grammatical  science.  To  that  all 
knowledge  tends ;  from  that  all  honor  radiates. 


342          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

So  claims  proud  Britain's  prouder  son.  But  can 
an  American  tamely  submit  to  such  a  monopoly  ? 
Is  not  grammar  rather,  or  at  least  quite  as  much, 
the  art  of  speaking  and  writing  the  American  lan 
guage  correctly,  and  shall  he  sit  -calmly  by  and 
witness  this  gross  outrage  upon  his  dearest  rights  ? 
But,  as  our  author  would  say,  \ve  "  must  not 
dwell,"  and  most  gladly  do  we  leave  this  unpleas 
ant  branch  of  a  very  pleasant  subject,  inwardly 
supplicating,  that,  whatever  disaster  is  yet  tu  be 
fall  us,  we  may  be  spared  the  pang  of  suspecting 
that  our  honored  President,  so  stanch  against  the 
Rebels,  so  unflinching  for  the  Slave,  is  in  danger 
of  lowering  his  lofty  crest  to  the  rampant  Brit 
ish  lion !  In  view  of  such  a  calamity,  one  can 
only  say  in  the  words  of  that  distinguished  Briti>h 
citizen  who,  living  in  England  in  the  full  light  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  must  be  supposed  to  have 
reached  the  summit  of  grammatical  excellence,  — 

"  Gin  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  an'  loifc  they  says  is  sweet, 
But  gin  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  for  I  couldn  abear  to  see  it." 

The  life  of  the  Ferry  Boy  was  scarcely  less 
adventurous  than  that  of  the  Pioneer  Boy,  and 
was,  indeed,  in  some  respects  its  counterpart.  As 
the  latter  learned  to  write  on  the  tops  of  stools,  so 
the  former  learned  to  read  on  bits  of  birch-bark. 
At  an  early  period  of  his  existence  he  broke  a  cap 
ful  of  eggs.  He  owned  a  calf.  He  caught  an  eel. 
He  put  salt  on  a  bird's  tail  and  learned  his  first 


THE  NEW  SCHOOL  OF  BIOGRAPHY.     343 

lesson  of  the  deceitfulness  of  the  human  heart. 
He  walked  to  Niagara  Falls  from  Buffalo.  He 
got  lost  in  the  woods.  He  went  to  live  with  his 
uncle  in  Ohio,  where  he  displayed  spirit  and  killed 
a  pig.  Here  also  occurred  a  u  prophecy  "  almost 
as  striking  as  the  Pioneer  Boy's  writing  his  name 
with  a  stick.  "  Salmon  "  wished  to  go  swimming. 
"  The  Bishop  said,  '  No  ! '  adding,  *  Why,  Salmon, 
the  country  might  lose  its  future  President,  if  you 
should  get  drowned ! '  This  was  the  first  time  his 
name  had  ever  been  mentioned  in  connection  with 
that  high  office ;  and  the  remark,  coming  from  the 
grave  Bishop's  lips,  must  have  made  a  strong  im 
pression  on  him.  Was  it  prophetic  ? "  Let  us 
assume  that  it  was,  although  it  must  for  the  pres 
ent  be  ranked  with  what  is  theologically  called 
"  unfulfilled  prophecy."  We  cannot,  at  any  rate, 
be  too  thankful  that  the  only  occasion  on  which  it 
was  ever  hinted  to  an  American  boy  that  he  might 
one  day  become  President  has  not  been  suffered 
to  pass  into  oblivion,  but  has  found  in  this  little 
volume  a  monument  more  durable  than  brass. 
To  go  on  with  our  inventory.  A  whole  flock  of 
thirteen  pigeons  shot  by  the  Ferry  Boy  answered 
through  their  misty  shroud  to  the  Pioneer  Boy's 
turkey  which  called  to  them  aloud.  He  taught 
school  two  weeks,  and  then  had  "  leave  to  resign." 
He  went  to  Washington  and  said  his  prayers  like 
a  good  boy:  we  trust  he  has  kept  up  the  practice 
ever  since. 


344          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

From  such  a  record  there  is  but  one  inference : 
if  the  man  is  not  President,  he  ought  to  be ! 

One  great  element  in  the  success  which  these 
little  books  have  commanded,  the  one  fact  which, 
we  are  persuaded,  accounts  for  the  quiet,  but  sig 
nificant  "  twenty-sixth  thousand  "  that  we  find  on 
the  title-page  of  one  of  them,  is  the  pains  which 
their  authors  take  to  make  their  meaning  clear. 
They  do  not,  like  too  many  of  our  modern  authors, 
leave  a  book  half  written,  forcing  the  reader  to  fin 
ish  their  work  as  he  goes  along.  They  are  instant, 
in  season  and  out  of  season,  with  explanation,  illus 
tration,  reflection,  until  the  idea  is,  so  to  speak, 
reduced  to  pulp,  and  the  reader  has  nothing  to 
perform  save  the  act  of  deglutition. 

"  When  he  ['  Nat ']  was  only  four  years  old, 
and  was  learning  to  read  little  words  of  two  let 
ters,  he  came  across  one  about  which  he  had  quite 
a  dispute  with  his  teacher.  It  was  INN. 

"  *  What  is  that  ? '  asked  his  teacher. 

" '  I-double  n,'  he  answered. 

"  '  What  does  i-double  n  spell  ? ' 

"  *  Tavern,'  was  his  quick  reply. 

"The  teacher  smiled,  and  said,  'No;  it  spells 
INN.  Now  read  it  again.' 

"  '  I-double  n  —  tavern,'  said  he. 

" '  I  told  you  that  it  did  not  spell  tavern,  it 
spells  INN.  Now  pronounce  it  correctly.' 

"  *  It  do  spell  tavern,'  said  he. 

"  The  teacher  was  finally  obliged  to  give  it  up, 


THE  NEW  SCHOOL  OF  BIOGRAPHY.     345 

and  let  him  enjoy  his  own  opinion.  She  probably 
called  him  obstinate,  although  there  was  nothing 
of  the  kind  about  him,  as  we  shall  see.  His 
mother  took  up  the  matter  at  home,  but  failed  to 
convince  him  that  i-double  n  did  not  spell  tavern. 
It  was  not  until  some  time  after  that  he  changed 
his  opinion  on  this  important  subject. 

"  That  this  instance  was  no  evidence  of  obsti 
nacy  in  Nat,  but  only  of  a  disposition  to  think 
'  on  his  own  hook,'  is  evident  from  the  following 
circumstances.  There  was  a  picture  of  a  public- 
house  in  his  book  against  the  word  INN,  with  the 
old-fashioned  sign-post  in  front,  on  which  a  sign 
was  swinging.  Near  his  father's,  also,  stood  a 
public-house,  which  everybody  called  a  tavern, 
with  a  tall  post  and  sign  in  front  of  it,  exactly 
like  that  in  his  book ;  and  Nat  said  within  him 
self,  'If  Mr.  Morse's  house  [the  landlord*]  is  a 
tavern,  then  this  is  a  tavern  in  my  book.'  He 
cared  little  how  it  was  spelled ;  if  it  did  not  spell 
tavern,  '  it  ought  to,'  he  thought.  Children  believe 
what  they  see,  more  than  what  they  hear.  What 
they  lack  in  reason  and  judgment  they  make  up  in- 
eyes.  So  Nat  had  seen  the  tavern  near  his  father's 
house  again  and  again,  and  he  had  stopped  to  look 
at  the  sign  in  front  of  it  a  great  many  times,  and 
his  eyes  told  him  it  was  just  like  that  in  the  book ; 

*  The  meaning  of  this  is,  that  Mr.  Morse  was  the  landlord,  not 
the  house.     Of  course  a  house  could  not  be  a  landlord  ;  still  less 
could  it  be  a  landlord  to  itself.  —  Note  by  Reviewer. 
15* 


346          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

therefore  it  was  his  deliberate  opinion  that  i-double 
n  spelt  tavern,  and  he  was  not  to  be  beaten  out  of 
an  opinion  that  was  based  on  such  clear  evidence. 
It  was  a  good  sign  in  Nat.  It  was  true  of  the 
three  men  to  whom  we  have  just  referred,  —  Bow- 
ditch,  Davy,  and  Buxton.  From  their  childhood 
they  thought  for  themselves,  so  that,  when  they 
became  men,  they  defended  their  opinions  against 
imposing  opposition.  True,  a  youth  must  not  be 
too  forward  in  advancing  his  ideas,  especially  if 
they  do  not  harmonize  with  those  of  older  persons. 
Self-esteem  and  self-confidence  should  be  guarded 
against.  Still,  in  avoiding  these  evils,  he  is  not 
obliged  to  believe  anything  just  because  he  is  told 
so.  It  is  better  for  him  to  understand  the  reason 
of  things,  and  believe  them  on  that  account." 

Would  our  Parks,  our  Palfreys,  our  Pres- 
cotts,  our  Emersons,  have  expounded  this  matter 
so  clearly?  Most  assuredly  not.  They  would 
have  left  us  in  the  Cimmerian  darkness  of  dreary 
conjecture  regarding  the  causes  of  Nat's  strange 
opinion,  and  the  lessons  to  be  drawn  from  it.  Or 
if  they  had  condescended  to  explanation,  it  would 
have  been  comprised  in  a  curt  phrase  or  two.  No 
boundary-line  between  a  virtue  and  its  correspond 
ing  vice  would  have  been  drawn  so  that  a  way 
faring  man,  though  a  fool,  should  not  err  in  follow 
ing  it.  This  author  has  struck  the  golden  mean. 
There  is  just  enough,  and  not  too  much. 

Again,  — 


THE  NEW  SCHOOL  OF  BIOGRAPHY.     347 

" '  I  should  rather  be  in  prison,  than  to  sit  up 
nights  studying  as  you  do.' 

" '  I  really  enjoy  it,  David.' 

"  '  I  can  hardly  credit  it.' 

"  '  Then  you  think  I  do  not  speak  the  truth  ? ' 

"  '  Oh,  no  !  ....  I  only  meant  to  say  that  I 
cannot  understand  it.' 

"  Allusion  is  here  made  to  an  important  fact. 
David  could  not  understand  how  Abraham  could 
possess  such  a  love  of  knowledge  as  to  lead  him 
to  forego  all  social  pleasures,  be  willing  to  wear  a 
threadbare  coat,  live  on  the  coarsest  fare,  and  labor 
hard  all  day,  and  sit  up  half^the  night,  for  the  sake 
of  learning.  But  there  is  just  that  power  in  the 
love  of  knowledge,  and  it  was  this  that  caused  Lin 
coln  to  derive  happiness  from  doing  what  would 
have  been  a  source  of  misery  to  David.  Some 
of  the  most  marked  instances  of  self-forgetfulness 
recorded  are  connected  with  the  pursuit  of  knowl 
edge.  Archimedes  was  so  much  in  love  with  the 
studies  of  his  profession,  that,  etc.,  etc.  Professor 
Heyne,  of  Gottingen,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc. — A  clearer 
explanation  than  this  we  have  rarely  met  with  out 
side  the  realm  of  mathematical  demonstration. 

A  shorter  example  of  the  same  judicious  over 
sight  we  have  when  "  in  rushed  Nat,  under  great 
excitement,  with  his  eyes  '  as  large  as  saucers,'  to 
use  a  hyperbole,  which  means  only  that  his  eyes 
looked  very  large  indeed."  The  impression  which 
would  have  been  made  upon  the  rising  generation, 


348          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

had  the  testimony  been  allowed  to  go  forth  with 
out  its  corrective,  that  upon  a  certain  occasion  any 
Governor's  eyes  were  really  as  large  as  saucers, 
even  very  small  tea-saucers,  is  such  as  the  imagi 
nation  refuses  to  dwell  on. 

i  This  exuberance  of  illustration  increases  the 
value  of  these  books  in  another  respect.  To  use 
a  homely  phrase,  we  get  more  than  we  bargained 
for.  Ostensibly  engaged  with  the  life  of  the  Bob 
bin  Boy,  we  are  covertly  introduced  to  the  major 
ity  of  all  the  boys  that  ever  were  born  and  came 
to  anything.  The  advertised  story  is  a  kind  of 
mother-hen  that  gathers  under  her  wings  a  numer 
ous  brood  of  biographical  chicks.  Quantities  of 
recondite  erudition  are  poured  out  on  the  slight 
est  provocation.  Nat's  unquestioned  superiority 
to  lu's  schoolmates  evokes  a  disquisition  for  the 
encouragement  of  dull  boys,  in  which  we  are  told 
that  "  the  great  philosopher,  Newton,  was  one  of 
the  dullest  scholars  in  school  when  he  was  twelve 
years  old.  Doctor  Isaac  Barrow  was  such  a  dull, 
pugnacious,  stupid  fellow,  etc.,  etc.  The  father 
of  Dr.  Adam  Clarke,  the  commentator,  called  his 
boy.  etc.  Cortina,"  (vernacular  for  Cortona,  prob 
ably,)  "  a  renowned  painter,  was  nicknamed,  etc., 
etc.  When  the  mother  of  Sheridan  once,  etc.,  etc. 
One  teacher  sent  Chatterton  home,  etc.  Napoleon 
and  Wellington,  etc.,  etc.  And  Sir  Walter  Scott 
was  named,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  All  of  which  makes 
very  pleasantly  diversified  reading.  Nat's  kind- 


THE  NEW  SCHOOL  OF  BIOGRAPHY.     349 

ness  of  heart  paves  the  way  to  our  learning,  that, 
"  at  the  age  of  ten  or  twelve  years,  John  Howard, 
the  philanthropist,  was  not  distinguished  above  the 
mass  of  boys  around  him,  except  for  the  kindness 
of  his  heart,  and  boyish  deeds  of  benevolence.  It 
was  so  with  Wilberforce,  whose  efforts,  etc.,  etc., 
etc.  And  Buxton,  whose  self-sacrificing  heart," 
etc.,  etc.,  etc.  While  Nat  is  swimming  four  rods 
under  water,  we  on  shore  are  acquiring  xiseful 
knowledge  of  the  Rothschilds,  of  Samuel  Budget, 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Buxton  again,  Sir  Walter 
Scott  again,  and  the  Duke  of  Wellington  again. 
Nat  walks  to  Prospect  Hill,  and  is  attended  by  a 
suite  consisting  of  Sir  Francis-  Chantrey,  "  the 
gifted  poet  Burns,"  "  the  late  Hugh  Miller," 
etc.,  who  also  loved  to  look  at  prospects.  Nat 
organized  a  debating-society,  (which  by  the  way 
was,  "  in  respect  of  unanimity  of  feeling  and  ac 
tion,  a  lesson  to  most  legislative  bodies,  and  to 
the  Congress  of  the  United  States  in  particular." 
Congress  of  the  United  States,  are  you  listening  ?) 
and  "  such  an  organization  has  proved  a  valuable 
means  of  improvement  to  many  persons."  Wit 
ness  "  the  Irish  orator,  Curran,"  with  biography  ; 
"a  living  American  statesman,"  with  biography; 
"  the  highly  distinguished  statesman,  Canning," 
more  biography ;  "  Henry  Clay,  the  American 
orator,"  with  autobiography ;  and  a  meteoric 
shower  of  lesser  biographies  emanating  from 
Tremont  Temple.  Nat  carried  a  book  in  his 


850          SKrR^^SHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

pocket,  and  "  Pockets  have  been  of  great  service 
to  self-made  men.  A  more  useful  invention  was 
never  known,  and  hundreds  are  now  living  who 
will  have  occasion  to  speak  well  of  pockets  till  they 
die,  because  they  were  so  handy  to  carry  a  book. 
Roger  Sherman  had  one  when  he  was  a  hard-work 
ing  shoemaker,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  Napoleon  had  one 
in  which  he  carried  the  Iliad  when,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 
Hugh  Miller  had  one,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  Elihu  Bur- 
ritt  had  one,"  etc.,  etc.,  for  three  pages,  to  which 
we  might  add,  from  the  best  authority,  the  striking 
fact  which  our  author,  notwithstanding  the  wide 
range  of  his  reading,  seems  unaccountably  to  have 
missed,  — 

"  Lyddy  Locket  lost  her  pocket, 

Lyddy  Fisher  found  it, 
Lyddy  Fisher  gave  it  to  Mr.  Gaines, 
And  Mr.  Gaines  ground  it." 

Allusion  is  here  made  to  an  important  fact.  Mr. 
Gaines  was  a  miller  ! 

Yet,  with  all  this  elucidation,  we  take  shame  to 
ourselves  for  admitting  that  there  are  points  which, 
after  all,  we  do  not  comprehend.  They  may  .be 
trivial ;  but  in  making  up  testimony,  it  is  the  little 
things  which  have  weight.  Trifles  light  as  air  are 
confirmation  strong  as  proofs  of  Holy  Writ,  and 
confutation  no  less  strong.  When,  as  a  proof  of 
Nat's  ardor  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  we  are 
told  that  he  walked  ten  miles  after  a  hard  day's 
work  to  hear  Daniel  Webster,  and  then  stood 


THE  NEW  SCHOOL  OF  BIOGRAPHY.     351 

through  the  oration  in  front  of  the  platfonn,  be 
cause  he  could  see  the  speaker  better,  —  and 
when,  turning  to  the  next  page,  we  are  told  that 
he  was  so  much  interested  that  he  "  would  have 
sat  entranced  till  morning,  if  the  gifted  orator  had 
continued  to  pour  forth  his  eloquence," — what  are 
we  to  believe  ?  When  we  are  bidden  to  "  listen 
to  the  gifted  orator,  as  the  flowing  periods  come 
burning  from  his  soul  on  fire,  riveting  the  atten 
tion,"  etc.,  is  it  a  river,  or  is  it  a  fire,  or  is  it  a 
hammer  and  anvil,  that  we  have  in  our  mind's 
eye,  Horatio  ?  When  Nat  "  waxed  warmer  and 
warmer,  as  he  advanced,  .and  spoke  in  a  flow  of 
eloquence  and  choice  selection  of  words  that  was 
unusual  for  one  of  his  age,"  did  he  come  out  dry- 
shod?  We  are  told  of  his  visit  to  the  Boston 
book-stores,  —  that  he  examined  the  books  "  out 
side  before  lie  stepped  in.  He  read  the  title  of 
each  volume  upon  the  back,  and  some  he  took  up 
and  examined,  but  we  have  no  explanation  of  this 
extraordinary  behavior.  "It  was  thus  with" 
Abraham.  "  The  manner  in  which  Abraham 
made  progress  in  penmanship,  writing  on  slabs 
and  trees,  on  the  ground  and  in^tlie  snow,  any 
where  that  he  could  find  a  place,  reminds  us 
forcibly  of  Pascal,  who  demonstrated  the  first 
thirty-two  propositions  of  Euclid  in  his  boyhood, 
without  the  aid  of  a  teacher."  We  not  only  are 
not  forcibly  reminded  of  Pascal,  but  we  are  not 
reminded  of  Pascal  at  all.  The  boy  who  imi- 


352  SKIRMISHES  AXD  SKETCHES. 

tates  on  slabs  mechanical  lines  which  he  has  been 
taught,  and  he  who  originates  mathematical  prob 
lems  and  theorems,  may  be  as  like  as  my  fingers 
to  my  fingers,  but  —  alas  that  it  is  forbidden  to 
say  !  —  we  do  not  see  it.  When  Mr.  Elkins  told 
Abraham  he  would  make  a  good  pioneer  boy,  and 
"  'What 's  a  pioneer  boy?'  asked  Abraham,"  why 
was  Mr.  Elkins  "  quite  amused  at  this  inquiry  ?  " 
and  why  did  he  "  exercise  his  risibles  for  a  min 
ute  "  before  replying  ?  When  Mr.  Stuart  offered 
young  Mr.  Lincoln  the  use  of  his  law-books,  and 
young  Mr.  Lincoln  answered,  —  very  properly,  we 
should  say,  —  "  You  are.  very  generous  indeed.  I 
could  never  repay  you  for  such  generosity,"  —  why 
did  Mr.  Stuart  respond,  "  shaking  his  sides  with 
laughter"  ?  We  do  not  wish  to  be  too  inquisitive, 
but  few  things  are  more  trying  to  a  sensitive  per 
son  than  to  see  others  overwhelmed  with  merri 
ment  in  which,  from  ignorance,  he  cannot  share. 

Want  of  space  forbids  us  to  do  more  than  touch 
lightly  upon  the  many  excellences  of  these  books. 
We  have  given  extracts  enough  to  enable  our 
readers  to  see  for  themselves  the  severe  elegance 
of  style,  the  compactness  and  force  of  the  narra 
tive,  the  verisimilitude  of  the  characters,  the  unity 
of  plan,  and  the  cogency  of  the  reasoning.  We 
trust  they  will  also  perceive  the  great  moral  effect 
that  cannot  fail  to  be  produced  by  them.  Such 
books  are  specially  adapted  to  meet  a  daily  increas 
ing  want.  Our  American  youth  are  too  apt  to 


THE  NEW  SCHOOL  OF  BIOGRAPHY.     353 

value  virtue  for  its  own  sake.  They  are  in  im 
minent  danger  of  giving  themselves  over  to  integ 
rity,  to  industry,  perseverance,  and  single-minded- 
ness,  without  looking  forward  to  those  posts  of 
usefulness  for  which  these  qualities  eminently  fit 
them.  Fired  with  the  love  of  learning,  they  are 
languid  in  claiming  the  honors  which  learning  has 
to  bestow.  Eager  to  become  worthy  of  the  high 
est  places,  they  make  no  effort  to  secure  the  places 
to  which  their  worth  points  them.  Political  su- 
pineness  is  the  bane  of  our  society.  The  one  great 
need  is  to  rouse  the  ambition  of  boys,  and  wake 
them  to  political  aspiration.  To  such  objects  such 
books  tend ;  and  who  would  hesitate  at  any  sacri 
fice  of  his  prejudices  in  favor  of  privacy,  when  such 
is  the  end  to  be  obtained  ?  Breathes  there  the 
man  with  soul  so  dead  who  would  not  lay  upon 
the  altar  his  father,  his  mother,  his  sisters,  not  to 
say  his  uncles  and  cousins,  nay,  the  inmost  sancti 
ties  of  his  home,  to  enable  American  boys  to  fasten 
their  eyes  upon  the  White  House  ?  Would  he 
refuse,  at  the  call  of  patriotism,  to  spread  before 
the  public  the  very  secrets  of  his  heart,  the  strug 
gles  of  his  closet,  his  communion  with  his  God  ? 

As  a  collateral  result  of  this  new  school  of  bi 
ography,  we  can  but  admire  the  new  form  in 
which  Nemesis  appears.  The  day  of  rich  rela 
tions  is  gone  by.  No  longer  can  stern  Uncle 
Bishops  lord  it  over  their  obscure  nephews,  for 
ever  before  their  eyes  will  flaunt  the  possible  book 


854          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

which  will  one  day  lay  open  to  a  gazing  world  all 
their  weakness  and  their  evil  behavior.  Let  not 
wicked  or  disagreeable  relatives  imagine  hence 
forth  that  they  may  safely  indulge  in  small  tyran 
nies,  neglects,  or  other  peccadilloes  ;  for  no  robin- 
redbreast  piously  will  cover  them  with  leaves,  but 
that  which  is  done  in  the  ear  shall  be  proclaimed 
upon  the  house-tops,  nor  can  they  tell  from  what 
quarter  the  sound  shall  come.  The  unkempt 
boy,  the  sullen  girl  in  the  chimney-corner,  may  be 
the  Narcissus  or  nymph  in  whose  orisons  all  their 
sins  shall  be  remembered. 

You  that  executors  be  made, 

And  overseers  eke 
Of  children  that  be  fatherless, 

And  infants  mild  and  meek, 
Take  you  example  by  this  thing, 

And  yield  to  each  his  riu'lit, 
Lest  God  with  such  like  misery 

Your  wicked  minds  requite." 

In  view  of  which  benefits,  and  others  "  too  nu 
merous  to  mention,"  we  humbly  beg  pardon  for 
the  petulance  which  disfigures  the  commencement 
of  our  paper,  and  desire  to  use  all  our  influence  to 
induce  all  persons  of  distinction  meekly  and  hu 
manely  to  lay  open  to  the  dear,  curious  world 
their  lives,  their  fortune,  and  their  sacred  honor. 

But,  however  beneficial  and  delightful  it  is  for 
a  friend  to  impale  a  friend  before  the  public  gaze, 
a  man  would  generally  not  desire  that  his  adver 
sary  should  write  a  book  about  him.  In  the 


TlfE  NEW  SCHOOL  OF  BIOGRAPHY.     355 

motives  that  prompted,  in  the  grace  of  the  doing, 
in  the  good  that  will  result,  we  can  forgive  the 
deed  when  friend  porti'ays  friend ;  but  we  cannot 
be  lenient  when  a  hostile  hand  exposes  the  life 
to  which  we  have  no  right.  We  would  fain  bor 
row  the  type  and  the  energy  of  Reginald  Bazal- 
gette  to  enforce  our  opinion  that  it  is  "  ABBOM- 
MANNABEL,"  and  the  innocence  of  Pet  Marjorie 
to  declare  it  "  the  most  Devilish  thing."  Yet  in 
a  loyal,  respectable,  religious  newspaper  we  late 
ly  saw  a  biography  of  Mr.  Vallandigham  which 
puts  to  blush  all  previous  achievements  in  the 
line  of  contemporary  history.  It  is  not  so  much 
that  we  are  let  into  the  family  secrets,  but  the 
family  secrets  are  spread  out  before  us,  as  the 
fruits  of  that  species  of  domestic  taxation  known 
as  "  the  presents "  are  spread  out  on  the  piano 
at  certain  wedding-festivals.  We  are  led  back 
to  first  principles,  to  the  early  married  life  of 
the  parent  Vallandighams.  The  mother  is  por 
trayed  with  a  vigorous  feminine  pencil,  and  cer 
tainly  looks  extremely  well  on  canvas.  Clem 
ent's  behavior  towards  her  is  shown  to  be  exem 
plary.  There  is  excuse  for  this  in  the  attacks 
which  have  been  made  upon  him  in  the  relation 
of  son.  But  upon  what  grounds  are  Clement's 
sisters'  homes  invaded  ?  Because  a  man  is  dis 
loyal  and  craven,  shall  we  inform  the  world  that 
his  brother  was  crossed  in  love  ?  Still  more  shall 
his  wife  be  taken  in  hand,  and  receive  what  even 


356         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES* 

the  late  Mr.  Smallweed  would  have  considered 
a  thorough  "  shaking-up  ?  "  "  If  they  were  all 
starving,"  declares  the  energetic  narrator,  "she 
could  not  earn  a  cent  in  any  way  whatever,  so  ut 
terly  helpless  is  this  fine  Southern  lady.  She  will 
not  sleep,  unless  the  light  is  kept  burning  all  night 
in  her  room,  for  fear  '  something  might  happen ' ; 
and  when  a  slight  matter  crosses  her  feelings,  she 
lies  in  bed  for  several  days."  Tut,  tut,  dear  lady! 
surely  this  once  thy  zeal  hath  outrun  thy  dis 
cretion.  Clement  L.  Vallandigham's  public  course 
is  a  proper  target  for  all  loyal  shafts,  but  prithee 
let  the  poor  lady,  his  wife,  remain  in  peace, — 
such  peace  as  she  can  command.  It  is  bad 
enough  for  her  to  be  his  wife,  without  being  over 
borne  with  the  additional  burden  of  her  own  per 
sonal  foibles.  One  can  be  daughter,  sister,  friend, 
without  impeachment  of  one's  sagacity  or  integri 
ty  ;  but  it  is  such  a  dreadful  indorsement  of  a  man 
to  marry  him !  Her  own  consciousness  must  be 
sufficiently  grievous ;  pray  do  not  irritate  it  into 
downright  madness.  Nay,  what,  after  all,  are  the 
so  heinous  faults  upon  which  you  animadvert  ? 
She  cannot  earn  a  cent :  that  may  be  her  misfor 
tune,  it  need  not  be  her  fault.  Perhaps  Clement, 
like  Albano,  and  all  good  husbands,  "  never  loved 
to  see  the  sweet  form  anywhere  else  than,  like 
other  butterflies,  by  his  side  among  the  flowers." 
She  will  keep  a  light  burning  in  her  room,  for 
sooth.  Have  we  not  all  our  pet  hobgoblins  ?  We 


THE  NEW  SCHOOL  OF  BIOGRAPHY.     357 

know  an  excellent  woman  who  once  sat  curled  up 
in  an  arm-chair  all  night  for  fear  of  a  mouse  ! 
And  is  it  not  a  well-understood  thing  that  nothing 
so  baffles  midnight  burglars  as  a  burning  candle  ? 
"When  a  light  matter  crosses  her  feelings,  she 
lies  in  bed  for  several  days."  Infinitely  better 
than  to  go  sulking  about  the  house  with  that  "  in 
jured-innocence  "  air  which  makes  a  man  feel  as 
if  he  were  an  assaulter  and  batterer  with  intent  to 
kill.  Blessings  rest  upon  those  charming  sensible 
women,  who,  when  they  feel  cross,  as  we  all  do  at 
times,  will  go  to  bed  and  sleep  it  away !  No,  let 
us  everywhere  put  down  treason  and  ostracize 
traitors.  It  is  lawful  to  suspend  "  naso  adunco  " 
those  whom  we  may  not  otherwise  suspend.  But 
even  traitors  have  rights  which  white  men  and 
white  women  are  bound  to  respect.  We  will 
crush  them,  if  we  can,  but  we  will  crush  them  in 
open  field,  by  fair  fight,. —  not  by  stealing  into 
their  bedchambers  to  stab  them  through  the  heart 
of  a  wife. 


XXVIII. 


PICTOR   IGNOTUS. 


UMAN  nature  is  impatient  of  myste 
ries.  The  occurrence  of  an  event  out 
of  the  line  of  common  causation,  the 
advent  of  a  person  not  plastic  to  the 
common  moulds  of  society,  causes  a  great  com 
motion  in  this  little  ant-hill  of  ours.  There  is 
perplexity,  bewilderment,  a  running  hither  and 
thither,  until  the  foreign  element  is  assigned  a 
place  in  the  ranks;  and  if  there  be  no  rank  to 
which  it  can  be  ascertained  to  belong,  a  new  rank 
shall  be  created  to  receive  it,  rather  than  that  it 
shall  be  left  to  roam  up  and  down,  baffling,  defi 
ant,  and  alone.  Indeed,  so  great  is  our  abhorrence 
of  outlying,  unclassified  facts,  that  we  are  often 
ready  to  accept  classification  for  explanation  ;  and 
having  given  our  mystery  a  niche  and  a  name,  we 
cease  any  longer  to  look  upon  it  as  mysterious. 
The  village-schoolmaster,  who  displayed  his  su 
perior  knowledge  to  the  rustics  gazing  at  an 
eclipse  of  the  sun  by  assuring  them  that  it  was 


PICTOR   IGNOTUS.  359 

"  only  a  phenomenon,"  was  but  one  of  a  great 
host  of  wiseacres  who  stand  ready  with  brush  and 
paint-pot  to  label  every  new  development,  and 
fancy  that  in  so  doing  they  have  abundantly  an 
swered  every  reasonable  inquiry  concerning  cause, 
character,  and  consequence. 

When  William  Blake  flashed  across  the  path  of 
English  polite  society,  society  was  confounded.  It 
had  never  had  to  do  with  such  an  apparition  be 
fore,  and  was  at  its  wits'  end.  But  some  Daniel 
was  found  wise  enough  to  come  to  judgment,  and 
pronounce  the  poet-painter  mad ;  whereupon  so 
ciety  at  once  composed  itself,  and  went  on  its  way 
rejoicing. 

There  are  a  few  persons,  however,  who  are  not 
disposed  to  let  this  verdict  stand  unchallenged. 
Mr.  Arthur  Gilchrist,  late  a  barrister  of  the  Mid 
dle  Temple,  a  man,  therefore,  who  must  have 
been  accustomed  to  weigh  evidence,  and  who 
would  not  have  been  likely  to  decide  upon  insuf 
ficient  grounds,  wrote  a  life  of  Mr.  Blake,  in 
which  he  strenuously  and  ably  opposed  the  theory 
of  insanity.  From  this  book,  chiefly,  we  propose 
to  lay  before  our  readers  a  slight  sketch  of  the  life 
of  a  man  who,  whether  sane  or  insane,  was  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  productions  of  his  own  or 
of  any  age. 

One  word,  in  the  beginning,  regarding  the  book 
before  us.  The  death  of  its  author,  while  as  yet 
but  seven  chapters  of  his  work  had  been  printed, 


3GO          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

would  preclude  severe  criticism,  even  if  the  spirit 
and  pui'pose  with  which  he  entered  upon  his  un 
dertaking,  and  which  he  sustained  to  its  close,  did 
not  dispose  us  to  look  leniently  upon  imperfections 
of  detail.  Possessing  that  first  requisite  of  a  bi 
ographer,  thorough  sympathy  with  his  subject,  he 
did  not  fall  into  the  opposite  error  of  indiscrimi 
nate  panegyric.  Looking  at  life  from  the  stand 
point  of  the  "  madman,"  he  saw  how  fancies  could 
not  only  appear,  but  be,  facts ;  and  then,  crossing 
over,  he  looked  at  the  madman  from  the  world's 
standpoint,  and  saw  how  these  soul-born  facts 
could  seem  not  merely  fancies,  but  the  wild  va 
garies  of  a  crazed  brain.  For  the  warmth  with 
which  he  espoused  an  unpopular  cause,  for  the 
skill  with  which  he  set  facts  in  their  true  light,  for 
the  ability  which  he  brought  to  the  defence  of  a 
man  whom  the  world  had  agreed  to  condemn,  for 
the  noble  persistence  with  which  he  forced  atten 
tion  to  genius  that  had  hitherto  received  little  but 
neglect,  we  cannot  too  earnestly  express  our  grati 
tude.  But  the  greater  our  admiration  of  material 
excellence,  the  greater  is  our  regret  for  superficial 
defects.  The  continued  supervision  of  the  author 
would  doubtless  have  removed  many  infelicities  of 
style  ;  yet  we  marvel  that  one  with  so  clear  an  in 
sight  should  ever,  even  in  the  first  glow  of  com 
position,  have  involved  himself  in  sentences  so 
complicated  and  so  obscure.  The  worst  faults  of 
Miss  Sheppard's  worst  style  are  reproduced  here, 


PICTOR    IGNOTUS.  361 

joined  to  an  unthriftiness  in  which  she  had  no 
part  nor  lot.  Not  unfrequently  a  sentence  is  a 
conglomerate  in  which  the  ideas  to  be  conveyed 
are  heaped  together  with  no  apparent  attempt  at 
arrangement,  unity,  or  completeness.  Surely,  it 
need  be  no  presumptuous,  but  only  a  tender  and 
reverent  hand  that  should  have  organized  these 
chaotic  periods,  completing  the  work  which  death 
left  unfinished,  and  sending  it  forth  to  the  world 
in  a  garb  not  unworthy  the  labor  of  love  so  untir 
ingly  bestowed  upon  it  by  the  lamented  author. 

To  show  that  our  strictures  are  not  undeserved, 
we  transcribe  a  few  sentences,  taken  at  random 
from  the  memoir :  — 

"  Which  decadence  it  was  led  this  Pars  to  go 
into  the  juvenile  Art-Academy  line,  vice  Shipley 
retired." 

"  The  unusual  notes  struck  by  William  Blake, 
in  any  case  appealing  but  to  one  class  and  a  small 
one,  were  fated  to  remain  unheard,  even  by  the 
Student  of  Poetiy,  until  the  process  of  regenera 
tion  had  run  its  course,  and,  we  may  say,  the  Po 
etic  Revival  gone  to  seed  again :  seeing  that  the 
virtues  of  simplicity  and  directness  the  new  poets 
began  by  bringing  once  more  into  the  foreground, 
are  those  least  practised  now." 

"  In  after  years  of  estrangement  from  Stothard, 
Blake  used  to  complain  of  this  mechanical  em 
ployment  as  engraver  to  a  fellow-designer,  who 
(he  asserted)  first  borrowed  from  one  that,  in  his 

16 


302          SKI RM 1 SUES  AND   SKETCHES. 

servile  capacity,  had  then  to  copy  that  comrade's 
version  of  his  own  inventions  —  as  to  motive  and 
composition  his  own,  that  is." 

"And  this  imposing  scroll  of  fervid  truisms  and 
hap-hazard  generalities,  as  often  disputable  as  not, 
if  often  acute  and  striking,  always  ingenuous  and 
pleasant,  was,  like  all  his  other  writings,  warmly 
welcomed  in  this  country." 

Let  us  now  go  back  a  hundred  years,  to  the  time 
when  William  Blake  was  a  fair-haired,  smooth- 
browed  boy,  wandering  aimlessly,  after  the  man 
ner  of  boys,  about  the  streets  of  London.  It 
might  seem  at  first  a  matter  of  regret  that  a  soul 
full  of  all  glowing  and  glorious  fancies  should  have 
been  consigned  to  the  damp  and  dismal  dulness  of 
that  crowded  city ;  but,  in  truth,  nothing  could  be 
more  fit.  To  this  affluent,  creative  mind  dingi- 

7  o 

ness  and  dimness  were  not.  Through  the  grayest 
gloom  golden  palaces  rose  before  him,  silver  pave 
ments  shone  beneath  his  feet,  jewelled  gates  un 
folded  on  golden  hinges  turning,  and  he  wandered 
forth  into  a  fair  country.  What  need  of  sunshine 
and  bloom  for  one  who  saw  in  the  deepest  dark 
ness  a  "light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land?" 
Rambling  out  into  the  pleasant  woods  of  Dulwich, 
through  the  green  meadows  of  Walton,  by  the 
breezy  heights  of  Sydenham,  bands  of  angels  at 
tended  him.  They  walked  between  the  toiling 
haymakers,  they  hovered  above  him  in  the  apple- 
boughs,  and  their  bright  wings  shone  like  stars. 


P1CTOR  IGNOTUS.  363 

For  him  there  was  neither  awe  nor  mystery,  only 
delio-ht.  Angels  were  no  more  unnatural  than 

o  o 

apples.  But  the  honest  hosier,  his  father,  took 
different  views.  Never  in  all  his  life  had  that 
worthy  citizen  beheld  angels  perched  on  tree-tops, 
and  he  was  only  prevented  from  administering 
to  his  son  a  sound  thrashing  for  the  absurd  false 
hood,  by  the  intercession  of  his  mother.  Ah, 
these  mothers !  By  what  fine  sense  is  it  that 
they  detect  the  nascent  genius  for  which  man's 
coarse  perception  can  find  no  better  name  than 
perverseness,  and  no  wiser  treatment  than  brute 
force  ? 

The  boy  had  much  reason  to  thank  his  mother, 
for  to  her  intervention  it  was  doubtless  largely 
due  that  he  was  left  to  follow  his  bent,,  and  haunt 
such  picture-galleries  as  might  be  found  in  noble 
men's  houses  and  public  sale-rooms.  Then  he 
feasted  his  bodily  eyes  on  earthly  beauty,  as  his 
mental  gaze  had  been  charmed  with  heavenly 
visions.  From  admiration  to  imitation  was  but  a 
step,  and  the  little  hands  soon  began  to  shape  such 
rude,  but  loving  copies  as  Raffaelle,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  must  have  smiled  to  see.  His  father, 
moved  by  motherly  persuasions,  as  we  can  easily 
infer,  bought  him  casts  for  models,  that  he  might 
continue  his  drawing-lessons  at  home  ;  his  own 
small  allowance  of  pocket-money  went  for  prints ; 
his  wistful  child-face  presently  became  known  to 
dealers,  and  many  a  cheap  lot  was  knocked  down 


364          SKIRMISHES  AXD  SKETCHES. 

to  him  with  amiable  haste  by  friendly  auctioneers. 
Then  and  there  began  that  life-long  love  and  loyal 
ty  to  the  grand  old  masters  of  Germany  and  Italy, 
to  Albrecht  Diirer,  to  Michel  Angelo,  to  Raffaelle, 
which  knew  no  diminution,  and  which  in  its  very 
commencement,  revealed  the  eclecticism  of  true 
genius,  because  the  giants  were  npt  the  gods  in 
those  days. 

But  there  came  a  time  when  Pegasus  must  be 
broken  in  to  drudgery,  and  travel  along  trodden 
ways.  By  slow,  it  cannot  be  said  by  toilsome  as 
cent,  the  young  student  had  reached  the  vestibule 
of  the  temple  ;  but 

"  Every  door  was  barred  with  gold,  and  opened  but  to  golden 
keys," 

which,  alas !  to  him  were  wanting.  Nothing 
daunted,  his  sincere  soul  preferred  to  be  a  door 
keeper  in  the  house  of  his  worship  rather  than  a 
dweller  in  the  tents  of  Mammon.  Unable  to  be 
an  artist,  he  was  content  for  the  time  to  become 
an  artisan,  and  chose  to  learn  engraving,  —  a  craft 
which  would  keep  him  within  sight  and  sound  of 
the  heaven  from  which  he  was  shut  out.  Appli 
cation  was  first  made  to  Ryland,  then  in  the 
zenith  of  his  fame,  engraver  to  the  King,  friend 
of  authors  and  artists,  himself  a  graceful,  accom 
plished,  and  agreeable  gentleman.  But  the  mar 
vellous  eyes  that  pierced  through  mortal  gloom  to 
immortal  glory  saw  also  the  darkness  that  brooded 
behind  uncanny  light.  "•  I  do  not  like  the  man's 


PICTOR   IGNOTUS.  365 

face,"  said  young  Blake,  as  he  was  leaving  the 
shop  with  his  father ;  "  it  looks  as  if  he  will  live 
to  be  hanged."  The  negotiation  failed ;  Blake 
was  apprenticed  to  Basire ;  and  twelve  years  after, 
the  darkness  that  had  lain  so  long  in  ambush  came 
out  and  hid  the  day :  Ryland  was  hanged. 

His  new  master,  Basire,  was  one  of  those  work 
men  who  magnify  their  office  and  make  it  honora 
ble.  The  most  distinguished  of  four  generations 
of  Basires,  engravers,  he  is  represented  as  a  su 
perior,  liberal-minded,  upright  man,  and  a  kind 
master.  With  him  Blake  served  out  his  seven 
years  of  apprenticeship,  as  faithful,  painstaking, 
and  industrious  as  any  blockhead.  So  great  was 
the  confidence  which  he  secured,  that,  month  after 
month,  and  year  after  year,  he  was  sent  out  alone 
to  Westminster  Abbey  and  the  various  old  church 
es  in  the  neighborhood,  to  make  drawings  from  the 
monuments,  with  no  oversight  but  that  of  his  own 
taste  and  his  own  conscience.  And  a  rich  reward 
we  may  well  suppose  his  integrity  brought  him,  in 
the  charming  solitudes  of  those  old-time  sanctu 
aries.  Wandering  up  and  down  the  consecrated 
aisles,  —  eagerly  peering  through  the  dim,  relig 
ious  light  for  the  beautiful  forms  that  had  leaped 
from  many  a  teeming  brain  now  turned  to  dust, — 
reproducing,  with  patient  hand,  graceful  outline 
and  deepening  shadow,  —  his  daring,  yet  reverent 
heart  held  high  communion  with  the  ages  that 
were  gone.  The  Spirit  of  the  Past  overshadowed 


366          SKIRMISHES  AXD   SKETCHES. 

him.  The  grandeur  of  Gothic  symbolism  rose 
before  him.  Voices  of  dead  centuries  murmured 
low  music  down  the  fretted  vault.  Fair  ladies 
and  brave  gentlemen  came  up  from  the  solemn 
chambers  where  they  had  lain  so  long  in  silent 
state,  and  smiled  with  their  olden  grace.  Shades 
of  nameless  poets,  who  had  wrought  their  souls 
into  a  cathedral  and  died  unknown  and  unhon- 
ored,  passed  before  the  dreaming  boy,  and  claimed 
their  immortality.  Nay,  once  the  Blessed  Face 
shone  through  the  cloistered  twilight,  and  the 
Twelve  stood  round  about.  In  this  strange  soli 
tude  and  stranger  companionship  many  an  old 
problem  untwined  its  Gordian  knot,  and  whispered 
along  its  loosened  length,  — 

"  I  give  you  the  end  of  a  golden  string : 

Only  wind  it  into  a  ball, 
It  will  lead  you  in  at  Heaven's  gate, 
Built  in  Jerusalem  wall." 

To  an  engraving  of  "  Joseph  of  Arimathea 
among  the  Rocks  of  Albion,"  executed  at  this 
time,  he  appends,  —  "  This  is  one  of  the  Gothic 
artists  who  built  the  Cathedrals  in  what  we  call 
the  Dark  Ages,  wandering  about  in  sheep-skins 
and  goat-skins;  of  whom  the  world  was  not  wor 
thy.  Such  were  the  Christians  in  all  ages." 

Yet,  somewhere,  through  mediaeval  gloom  and 
modern  din,  another  spirit  breathed  upon  him,  — 
a  spirit  of  green  woods  and  blue  waters,  the  fresh 
ness  of  May  mornings,  the  prattle  of  tender  in- 


PICTOR   1GNOTUS.  367 

fancy,  the  gambols  of  young  lambs  on  the  hill-side. 
From  his  childhood,  Poetry,  walking  hand  in  hand 
with  Painting,  beguiled  his  loneliness  with  wild, 
sweet,  harmonies.  Bred  up  amid  the  measured, 
melodious  platitudes  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
that  Golden  Age  of  commonplace,  he  struck  down 
through  them  all  with  simple,  untaught,  uncon 
scious  directness,  and  smote  the  spring  of  ever- 
living  waters.  Such  wood-notes  wild  as  trill  in 
Shakespeare's  verse  sprang  from  the  stricken 
chords  beneath  his  hand.  The  little  singing- 
birds  that  seem  almost  to  have  leaped  unbidden 
into  life  among  the  gross  creations  of  those  old 
Afreets  who 

Stood  around  the  throne  of  Shakespeare, 
Sturdy,  but  unclean," 

carolled  their  clear,  pure  lays  to  him,  and  left  a 
quivering  echo.  Fine,  fleeting  fantasies  we  have, 
a  tender,  heart-felt,  heart-reaching  pathos,  laugh 
ter  that  might  at  any  moment  tremble  into  tears, 
eternal  truths,  draped  in  the  garb  of  quaint  and 
simple  story,  solemn  fervors,  subtile  sympathies, 
and  the  winsomeness  of  little  children  at  their 
play, — fancies  glowing  sometimes  with  the  deep 
est  color,  often  just  tinged  to  the  pale  and  changing 
hues  of  a  dream,  but  touched  with  such  coy  grace, 
modulated  to  such  free,  wild  rhythm,  suffused  with 
such  a  delicate,  evanishing  loveliness,  that  they 
seem  scarcely  to  be  the  songs  of  our  tangible  earth, 


368         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

but  snatches  from  fairy-land.  Often  rude  in  form, 
often  defective  in  rhyme,  and  not  unfrequently 
with  even  graver  faults  than  these,  their  rugged- 
ness  cannot  hide  the  gleam  of  the  sacred  fire. 
"The  Spirit  of  the  Age,"  moulding  her  pliant 
poets,  was  wiser  than  to  meddle  with  this  sterner 
stuff.  From  what  hidden  cave  in  Rare  Ben  Jon- 
son's  realm  did  the  boy  bring  such  an  opal  as  this 

SONG. 

"  My  silks  and  fine  array, 

My  smiles  and  languished  air, 
By  Love  are  driven  away  ; 

And  mournful,  lean  Despair 
Brings  me  yew  to  deck  my  grave : 
Such  end  true  lovers  have ! 

"  His  face  is  fair  as  heaven, 

Where  springing  buds  unfold ; 
Oh,  why  to  him  was  't  given, 

Whose  heart  is  wintry  cold  ? 
His  breast  is  Love's  all-worshipped  tomb. 
Where  all  Love's  pilgrims  come. 

"  Bring  me  an  axe  and  spade, 

Bring  me  a  winding-sheet ; 
When  I  my  grave  have  made, 

Let  winds  and  tempests  beat : 
Then  down  I  '11  lie,  as  cold  as  clay. 
True  love  doth  pass  away." 

What  could  the  Spirit  of  the  Age  hope  to  do 
with  a  boy  scarcely  yet  in  his  teens,  who  dared 
arraign  her  in  such  fashions  as  is  set  forth  in  his 
address 


PIC  TOR  IGNOTUS.  369 


TO  THE  MUSES. 

"  Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow, 

Or  in  the  chambers  of  the  East, 
The  chambers  of  the  Sun,  that  now 
From  ancient  melody  have  ceased ; 

"  Whether  in  heaven  ye  wander  fair, 

Or  the  green  corners  of  the  earth, 
Or  the  blue  regions  of  the  air, 

Where  the  melodious  winds  have  birth  ; 

"  Whether  on  crystal  rocks  ye  rove 
Beneath  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 
Wandering  in  many  a  coral  grove, 
Fair  Nine,  forsaking  Poetry ; 

"  How  have  you  left  the  ancient  love 

That  bards  of  old  enjoyed  in  you  ! 
The  languid  strings  do  scarcely  move, 
The  sound  is  forced,  the  notes  are  few." 

Whereabouts  in  its  Elegant  Extracts  would  a 
generation  that  strung  together  sonorous  couplets, 
and  compiled  them  into  a  book  to  Enforce  the 
Practice  of  Virtue,  place  such  a  ripple  of  verse  as 
this?- 

"  Piping  down  the  valleys  wild, 

Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 

And  he,  laughing,  said  to  me: 

"  '  Pipe  a  song  about  a  lamb  ! ' 

So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 
'  Piper,  pipe  that  song  again ! ' 
.  So  I  piped ;  he  wept  to  hear. 

"  '  Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe ; 
Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer  ! ' 
16*  x 


370          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

So  I  sang  the  same  again, 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

"  'Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 

In  a  book,  that  all  may  read  ! ' 
So  he  vanished  from  my  sight, 
And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed, 

"  And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 

And  I  stained  the  water  clear, 
And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs, 
Every  child  may  joy  to  hear." 

A  native  of  the  jungle,  leaping  into  the  fine 
drawing-rooms  of  Cavendish  Square,  would  hard 
ly  create  more  commotion  than  such  a  poem  as 
"  The  Tiger,"  charging  in  among  Epistles  to  the 
Earl  of  Dorset,  Elegies  describing  the  Sorrow  of 
an  Ingenuous  Mind,  Odes  innumerable  to  Mem 
ory,  Melancholy,  Music,  Independence,  and  all 
manner  of  odious  themes. 

"  Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Framed  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

"  In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burned  that  fire  within  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dared  he  aspire  ? 
What  the  hand  dared  seize  the  fire  ? 

"  And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart  ? 
When  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  formed  thy  dread  feet  ? 

"  What  the  hammer,  what  the  chain, 
Knit  thy  strength  and  forged  thy  brain  1 


PICTOR   IGNOTUS.  371 

What  the  anvil  1     What  dread  grasp 
Dared  thy  deadly  terrors  clasp  ? 

"  When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  he  smile  his  work  to  see  ? 
Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee "? " 

Mrs.  Montagu,  by  virtue  of  the  "  moral "  in  the 
last  line,  may  possibly  have  ventured  to  read  the 
"Chimney-Sweeper"  at  her  annual  festival  to 
the  swart  little  people ;  'but  we  have  not  space 
to  give  the  gem  a  setting  here ;  nor  .the  "  Little 
Black  Boy,"  with  its  matchless,  sweet  child-sad 
ness.  Indeed,  scarcely  one  of  his  early  poems 
—  all  written  between  the  ages  of  eleven  and 
twenty  —  is  without  its  peculiar,  and  often  its 
peerless  charm. 

Arrived  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  he  finished 
his  apprenticeship  to  Basire,  and  began  at  once 
the  work  and  worship  of  his  life,  —  the  latter  by 
studying  at  the  Royal  Academy,  the  former  by 
engraving  for  the  booksellers.  Introduced  by  a 
brother-artist  to  Flaxman,  he  joined  him  in  furnish 
ing  designs  for  the  famous  Wedgwood  porcelain, 
and  so  the  same  dinner-set  gave  bread  and  but 
ter  to  genius,  and  nightingales'  tongues  to  wealth. 
That  he  was  not  a  docile,  though  a  very  devoted 
pupil,  is  indicated  by  his  reply  to  Moser,  the 
keeper,  who  came  to  him,  as  he  was  looking  over 
prints  from  his  beloved  Raffaelle  and  Michael  An- 
gelo,  and  said,  "  You  should  not  study  these  old, 


372          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

hard,  stiff,  and  dry,  unfinished  works  of  Art:  stay 
a  little,  and  I  will  show  you  what  you  should 
study."  He  brought  down  Le  Brim  and  Rubens. 
"  How  did  I  secretly  rage  !  "  says  Blake.  "  I 
also  spake  my  mind !  I  said  to  Moser,  '  These 
things  that  you  call  finished  are  not  even  begun ; 
how,  then,  can  they  be  finished  ? '  :  The  reply 
of  the  startled  teacher  is  not  recorded.  In  other 
respects,  also,  he  swerved  from  Academical  usage. 
Life,  as  it  appeared  in  ""a  model  artificially  posed 
to  enact  an  artificial  part,"  became  hateful  to  him, 
seemed  to  him  a  caricature  of  Nature,  though  he 

7  o 

delighted  in  the  noble  antique  figures. 

Nature  soon  appeared  to  him  in  another  shape, 
and  altogether  charming.  A  lively  miss  to  whom 
he  had  paid  court  showed  herself  cold  to  his  ad 
vances  ;  which  circumstance  he  was  one  evening 
bemoaning  to  a  dark-eyed,  handsome  girl,  —  (a 
dangerous  experiment,  by  the  way,)  —  who  as 
sured  him  that  she  pitied  him  from  her  heart. 
"Do  you  pity  me?"  he  eagerly  asked.  "Yes,  I 
do,  most  sincerely."  "Then  I  love  you  for  that," 
replied  the  new  Othello  to  his  Desdemona ;  and 
so  well  did  the  wooing  go  that  the  dark-eyed 
Catharine  presently  became  his  wife,  the  Kate  of 
a  forty-five  years'  marriage.  Loving,  devoted, 
docile,  she  learned  to  be  helpmeet  and  companion. 
.Never,  on  the  one  side,  murmuring  at  the  narrow 
fortunes,  nor,  on  the  other,  losing  faith  in  the 
greatness  to  which  she  had  bound  herself,  she  not 


PICTOR  IGNOTUS.  373 

only  ordered  well  her  small  household,  but  came 
at  length  to  share  her  husband's  tastes.  She 
learned  to  read  and  write,  and  to  work  off  his 
engravings.  Nay,  love  endowed  her  with  a  new 
power,  the  vision  and  the  faculty  divine,  and  she 
presently  learned  to  design  with  a  spirit  and  a 
grace  hardly  to  be  distinguished  from  her  hus 
band's.  No  children  came  to  make  or  mar  their 
harmony ;  and  from  the  summer  morning  in  Bat- 
tersea  that  placed  her  hand  in  his,  to  the  summer 
evening  in  London  that  loosed  it  from  his  dying 
grasp,  she  was  the  true  angel-vision,  Heaven's 
own  messenger  to  the  dreaming  poet-painter. 

Being  the  head  of  a  family,  Blake  now,  as  was 
proper,  went  into  "  society."  And  what  a  society 
it  was  to  enter !  And  what  a  man  was  Blake  to 
enter  it !  The  society  of  President  Reynolds,  and 
Mr.  Mason  the  poet,  and  Mr.  Sheridan  the  play 
actor,  and  pompous  Dr.  Burney,  and  abstract  Dr. 
Delap, — all  honorable  men;  a  society  that  was 
dictated  to  by  Dr.  Johnson,  and  delighted  by  Ed 
mund  Burke,  and  sneered  at  by  Horace  Walpole, 
its  untiring  devotee :  a  society  presided  over  by 
Mrs.  Montagu,  whom  Dr.  Johnson  dubbed  Queen 
of  the  Blues ;  Mrs.  Carter,  borrowing,  by  right  of 
years,  her  matron's  plumes ;  Mrs.  Chapone,  sensi 
ble,  ugly,  and  benevolent;  the  beautiful  Mrs. 
Sheridan;  the  lively,  absurd,  incisive  Mrs.  Chol- 
mondeley ;  sprightly,  witty  Mrs.  Thrale ;  and 
Hannah  More,  coiner  of  guineas,  both  as  saint 


374          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

and  sinner ;  a  most  piquant,  trenchant,  and  enter 
taining  society  it  was,  and  well  might  be,  since  the 
bullion  of  genius  was  so  largely  wrought  into  the 
circulating  medium  of  small  talk ;  but  a  society 
which,  from  sheer  lack  of  vision,  must  have  enter 
tained  its  angels  unawares.  Such  was  the  current 
which  caught  up  this  simple-hearted  painter,  this 
seer  of  unutterable  things,  this  "  eternal  child," — 
caught  him  up  only  to  drop  him,  with  no  creditable, 
but  with  very  credible  haste.  As  a  lion,  he  was 
undoubtedly  thrice  welcome  in  Rathbone  Place ; 
but  when  it  was  found  that  the  lion  would  not 
roar  them  gently,  nor  be  bound  by  their  silken 
strings,  but  rather  shook  his  mane  somewhat  con 
temptuously  at  his  would-be  tamers,  and  kept,  in 
their  grand  saloons,  his  freedom  of  the  wilderness, 
he  was  straightway  suffered  to  return  to  his  fitting 
solitudes.  One  may  imagine  the  consternation 
that  would  be  caused  by  this  young  fellow  turning 
to  Mrs.  Carter,  whose  "talk  was  all  instruction," 
or  to  Mrs.  Chapone,  bent  on  the  "improvement 
of  the  mind,"  or  to  Miss  Streatfield,  with  her 
"nose  and  notions  a  la  Crreeque,"  and  abruptly 
in  quizzing,  "  Madam,  did  you  ever  see  a  fairy's 
funeral  ?  "  "  Never,  sir  !  "  responds  the  startled 
Muse.  "  I  have,"  pursues  Blake,  as  calmly  as  if 
he  were  proposing  to  relate  a  bon  mot  which  he 
heard  at  Lady  Middleton's  rout  last  night.  "  I 
was  walking  alone  in  my  garden  last  night :  there 
was  great  stillness  among  the  branches  and  flow- 


PICTOR  IGNOTUS.  375 

ers,  and  more  than  common  sweetness  in  the  air, 
I  heard  a  low  and  pleasant  sound,  and  knew  not 
whence  it  came.  At  last  I  saw  the  broad  leaf  of 
a  flower  move,  and  underneath  I  saw  a  procession 
of  creatures  of  the  size  and  color  of  green  and 
gray  grasshoppers,  bearing  a  body  laid  out  on  a 
rose-leaf,  which  they  buried  with  songs,  and  then 
disappeared.  It  was  a  fairy  funeral."  Or  they 
are  discussing,  somewhat  pompously,  Herschel's 
late  discovery  of  Uranus,  and  the  immense  dis 
tances  of  heavenly  bodies,  when  Blake  bursts  out 
uproariously,  "  'T  is  false!  I  was  walking  down  a 
lane  the  other  day,  and  at  the  end  of  it  I  touched 
the  sky  with  my  stick."  Truly,  for  this  wild  man, 
who  obstinately  refuses  to  let  his  mind  be  regulat 
ed,  but  bawls  out  his  mad  visions  the  louder  the 
more  they  are  combated,  there  is  nothing  for  it 
but  to  go  back  to  his  Kitty,  and  the  little  tene 
ment  in  Green  Street. 

But  real  friends  Blake  found,  who,  if  they  could 
not  quite  understand  him,  could  love  and  honor 
and  assist.  Flaxman,  the  "Sculptor  for  Eternity," 
and  Fuseli,  the  fiery-hearted  Swiss  painter,  stood 
up  for  him  manfully.  His  own  younger  brother, 
Robert,  shared  his  talents,  and  became  for  a  time 
a  loved  and  honored  member  of  his  family,  —  too 
much  honored,  if  we  may  credit  an  anecdote  in 
which  the  brother  appears  to  much  better  advan 
tage  than  the  husband.  A  dispute  having  one 
day  arisen  between  Robert  and  Mrs.  Blake,  Mr. 


376          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

Blake,  after  a  while,  deemed  her  to  have  gone  too 
far,  and  bade  her  kneel  down  and  beg  Robert's 
pardon,  or  never  see  her  husband's  face  again. 
Nowise  convinced,  she  nevertheless  obeyed  the 
stern  command,  and  acknowledged  herself  in  the 
wrong.  "  Young  woman,  you  lie  !  "  retorted  Rob 
ert;  ".Tarn  in  the  wrong!  "  This  beloved  brother 
died  at  the  age  of  twenty-five.  During  his  last 
illness,  Blake  attended  him  with  the  most  affec 
tionate  devotion,  nor  ever  left  the  bedside  till 
he  behold  the  disembodied  spirit  leave  the  frail 
clay  and  soar  heavenward,  clapping  its  hands  for 


His  brother  gone,  though  not  so  far  away  that 
he  did  not  often  revisit  the  old  home,  —  friendly 
Flaxman  in  Italy,  but  more  inaccessible  there  than 
Robert  in  the  heaven  which  lay  above  this  man  in 
his  perpetual  infancy,  —  the  bas-bleus  reinclosed 
in  the  charmed  circle  in  which  Blake  had  so  riot 
ously  disported  himself,  a  small  attempt  at  partner 
ship,  shop-keeping,  and  money-making,  wellnigh 
"dead  before  it  was  born,"  —  the  poet  began  to 
think  of  publishing.  The  verses  of  which  we 
have  spoken  had  been  seen  but  by  few  people, 
and  the  store  was  constantly  increasing.  Influ 
ence  with  the  publishers,  and  money  to  defray  ex 
penses,  were  alike  wanting.  A  copy  of  Lavater's 
"Aphorisms/'  translated  by  his  fellow-countryman, 
Fuseli,  had  received  upon  its  margins  various  an 
notations  which  reveal  the  man  in  his  moods. 


PICTOR  IGNOTUS.  377 

"  The  great  art  to  love  your  enemy  consists  in 
never  losing  sight  of  man  in  him,"  says  Lavater. 
"None  can  see  the  man  in  the  enemy,"  pen 
cils  Blake.  "If  he  is  ignorantly  so,  he  is  not 
truly  an  enemy ;  if  maliciously  so,  not  a  man.  I 
cannot  love  my  enemy;  for  my  enemy  is  not  a 
man,  but  a  beast.  And  if  I  have  any,  I  can  love 
him  as  a  beast,  and  wish  to  beat  him."  No 
equivocation  here,  surely.  On  superstition  he 
comments,  — "  It  has  been  long  a  bugbear,  by 
reason  of  its  having  been  united  with  hypocrisy. 
But  let  them  be  fairly  separated,  and  then  super 
stition  will  be  honest  feeling,  and  God,  who  loves 
all  honest  men,  will  lead  the  poor  enthusiast  in  the 
path  of  holiness."  Herein  lies  the  germ  of  a 
truth.  Again,  Lavater  says,  —  "A  great  woman 
not  imperious,  a  fair  woman  not  vain,  a  woman  of 
common  talents  not  jealous,  an  accomplished  wo 
man  who  scorns  to  shine,  are  four  wonders  just 
great  enough  to  be  divided  among  the  four  corners 
of  the  globe."  Whereupon  Blake  adds,  —  "Let 
the  men  do  their  duty,  and  the  women  will'  be 
such  wonders;  the  female  life  lives  from  the  life 
of  the  male.  See  a  great  many  female  depend 
ents,  and  you  know  the  man."  If  this  be  mad 
ness,  would  that  the  madman  might  have  bitten  all 
mankind  before  he  died !  To  the  advice,  "  Take 
here  the  grand  secret,  if  not  of  pleasing  all,  yet 
of  displeasing  none :  court  mediocrity,  avoid  origi 
nality,  and  sacrifice  to  fashion,"  he  appends,  with 


378          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

an  evident  reminiscence  of  Rathbone  Place,  "And 
go  to  hell." 

But  this  private  effervescence  was  not  enough ; 
and  after  he  had  been  long  thinking  anxiously  as 
to  ways  and  means,  suddenly,  in  the  night,  Robert 
stood  before  him,  and  revealed  to  him  a  secret  by 
which  a  fac-simile  of  poetry  and  design  could  be 
produced.  On  rising  in  the  morning,  Mrs.  Blake 
was  sent  out  with  a  half-crown  to  buy  the  neces 
sary  materials,  and  with  that  he  began  an  experi 
ment  which  resulted  in  furnishing  his  principal 
means  of  support  through  life.  It  consisted  in  a 
species  of  engraving  in  relief  both  of  the  words  and 
the  designs  of  his  poems,  by  a  process  peculiar  and 
original.  From  his  plates  he  printed  off  in  any 
tint  he  chose,  afterwards  coloring  up  his  designs  by 
hand.  Joseph,  the  sacred  carpenter,  had  appeared 
in  a  vision,  and  revealed  to  him  certain  secrets  of 
coloring.  Mrs.  Blake  delighted  to  assist  him  in 
taking  impressions,  which  she  did  with  great  skill, 
in  tinting  the  designs,  and  in  doing  up  the  pages 
in  boards ;  so  that  everything,  except  manufactur 
ing  the  paper,  was  done  by  the  poet  and  his  wife. 
Never  before,  as  his  biographer  justly  remarks, 
was  a  man  so  literally  the  author  of  his  own  book. 
If  we  may  credit  the  testimony  that  is  given,  or 
even  judge  from  such  proofs  as  Mr.  Gilchrist's 
book  can  furnish,  these  works  of  his  hands  were 
exquisitely  beautiful.  The  effect  of  the  poems 
imbedded  in  their  designs  is,  we  are  told,  quite 


PICTOR  IGNOTUS.  379 

different  from  their  effect  set  naked  upon  a  blank 
page.  It  was  as  if  he  had  transferred  scenery  and 
characters  from  that  spirit-realm  where  his  own 
mind  wandered  at  will ;  and  from  wondrous  lips 
wondrous  words  came  fitly,  and  with  surpassing 
power.  Confirmation  of  this  we  find  in  the  few 
plates  of  "  Songs  of  Innocence"  which  have  been 
recovered.  Shorn  of  the  radiant  rainbow  hues, 
the  golden  sheen,  with  which  the  artist,  angel- 
taught,  glorified  his  pictures,  they  still  body  for 
us  the  beauty  of  his  "  Happy  Valley."  Children 
revel  there  in  unchecked  play.  Springing  vines, 
in  wild  exuberance  of  life,  twine  around  the  verse, 
thrusting  their  slender  coils  in  among  the  lines. 
Weeping  willows  dip  their  branches  into  translu 
cent  pools.  Heavy-laden  trees  droop  their  ripe, 
rich  clusters  overhead.  Under  the  shade  of  broad- 
spreading  oaks  little  children  climb  on  the  tiger's 
yielding  back  and  stroke  the  lion's  tawny  mane  in 
a  true  Millennium. 

The  first  series,  "Songs  of  Innocence,"  was 
succeeded  by  "Songs  of  Experience,"  both  subse 
quently  bound  in  one  volume.  Then  came  the 
book  of  "  Thel,"  an  allegory,  wherein  Thel,  beau 
tiful  daughter  of  the  Seraphim,  laments  the  short 
ness  of  her  life  down  by  the  River  of  Adona,  and 
is  answered  by  the  Lily  of  the  Valley,  the  Little 
Cloud,  the  Lowly  Worm,  and  the  Clod  of  Clay ; 
the  burden  of  whose  song  is, 

O  ' 

"  But  how  this  is,  sweet  maid,  I  know  not,  and  I  cannot  know, 
I  ponder,  and  I  cannot  ponder :  yet  I  live  and  love  ! " 


380          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

The  designs  give  the  beautiful  daughter  listening 
to  the  Lily  and  the  Cloud.  The  Clod  is  an  infant 
wrapped  in  a  lily-leaf.  The  effect  of  the  whole 
poem  and  design  together  is  as  of  an  "angel's 
reverie." 

The  "  Marriage  of  Heaven  and  Hell "  is  con 
sidered  one  of  the  most  curious  and  original  of  his 
works.  After  an  opening  "  Argument "  comes  a 
series  of  "  Proverbs  of  Hell,"  which,  however, 
answer  very  well  for  earth :  as,  "A  fool  sees  not 
the  same  tree  that  a  wise  man  sees  ";  "  He  whose 
face  gives  no  light  shall  never  become  a  star "; 
"  The  apple-tree  never  asks  the  beech  how  he 
shall  grow,  nor  the  lion  the  horse  how  he  shall 
take  his  prey."  The  remainder  of  the  book  con 
sists  of  "Memorable  Fancies,"  half  dream,  half 
allegory,  sublime  and  grotesque  inextricably  com 
mingling,  but  all  ornamented  with  designs  most 
daring  and  imaginative  in  conception,  and  steeped 
in  the  richest  color.  We  subjoin  a  description  of 
one  or  two,  as  a  curiosity.  "A  strip  of  azure  sky 
surmounts,  and  of  land  divides,  the  words  of  the 
title-page,  leaving  on  each  side  scant  and  baleful 
trees,  little  else  than  stem  and  spray.  Drawn  on 
a  tiny  scale  lies  a  corpse,  and  one  bends  over  it. 
Flames  burst  forth  below  and  slant  upward  across 
the  page,  gorgeous  with  every  hue.  In  their  very 
core,  two  spirits  rush  together  and  embrace."  In 
the  seventh  design  is  "a  little  island  of  the  sea, 
where  an  infant  springs  to  its  mother's  bosom. 


PICTOR  IGNOTUS.  381 

From  the  birth-cleft  ground  a  spirit  has  half 
emerged.  Below,  with  outstretched  arms  and 
hoary  beard,  an  awful,  ancient  man  rushes  at  you, 
as  it  were,  out  of  the  page."  The  eleventh  is  "a 
surging  of  mingled  fire,  water,  and  blood,  wherein 
roll  the  volumes  of  a  huge,  double-fanged  serpent, 
his  crest  erect,  his  jaws  wide  open."  "  The  ever- 
fluctuating  color,  the  spectral  pigmies  rolling,  fly 
ing,  leaping  among  the  letters,  the  ripe  bloom  of 
quiet  corners,  the  living  light  and  bursts  of  flame, 
the  spires  and  tongues  of  fire  vibrating  with  the 
full  prism,  make  the  page  seem  to  move  and  quiv 
er  within  its  boundaries,  and  you  lay  the  book 
down  tenderly,  as  if  you  had  been  handling  some 
thing  sentient." 

We  have  not  space  to  give  a  description,  scarce 
ly  even  a  catalogue,  of  Blake's  numerous  works. 
Wild,  fragmentary,  gorgeous  dreams  they  are, 
tangled  in  with  strange  allegoric  words  and  de 
signs,  that  throb  with  their  prisoned  vitality.  The 
intensity  of  his  lines  and  figures  it  is  impossible 
for  words  to  convey.  It  is  power  in  the  fiercest 
action, — fire  and  passion,  the  madness  and  the 
stupor  of  despair,  the  frenzy  of  desire,  the  lurid 
depths  of  woe,  that  thrill  and  rivet  you  even  in  the 
comparatively  lifeless  rendering  of  this  book.  The 
mere  titles  of  the  poems  give  but  a  slight  clew  to 
their  character.  Ideas  are  upheaved  in  a  tossing 
surge  of  words.  It  is  a  mystic,  but  lovely  Utopia, 
into  which  "  The  Gates  of  Paradise  "  open.  The 


382          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

practical  name  of  "  America "  very  faintly  fore 
shadows  the  Ossianic  Titans  that  glide  across  its 
pages,  or  the  tricksy  phantoms,  the  headlong  spec 
tres,  the  tongues  of  flame,  the  folds  and  fangs  of 
symbolic  serpents,  that  writhe  and  leap  and  dart 
and  riot  there.  With  a  poem  named  "  Europe," 
we  should  scarcely  expect  for  a  frontispiece  the 
Ancient  of  Days,  in  unapproached  grandeur,  set 
ting  his  "compass  upon  the  face  of  the  Earth," — 
a  vision  revealed  to  the  designer  at  the  top  of  his 
own  staircase. 

Small  favor  and  small  notice  these  works  se 
cured  from  the  public,  which  found  more  edifica 
tion  in  the  drunken  courtship  and  brutal  squabbles 
of  "  the  First  Gentleman  of  Europe "  than  in 
Songs  of  Innocence  or  Sculptures  for  Eternity. 
The  poet's  own  friends  constituted  his  public,  and 
patronized  him  to  the  extent  of  their  power.  The 
volume  of  Songs  he  sold  for  thirty  shillings  and  two 
guineas.  Afterwards,  with  the  delicate  and  loving 
design  of  helping  the  artist,  who  would  receive 
help  in  no  other  way,  five  and  even  ten  guineas 
were  paid,  for  which  sum  he  could  hardly  do 
enough,  finishing  off  each  picture  like  a  miniature. 
One  solitary  patron  he  had,  Mr.  Thomas  Butts, 
who,  buying  his  pictures  for  thirty  years,  and 
turning  his  own  house  into  "  a  perfect  Blake  Gal 
lery,  often  supplied  the  painter  with  his  sole  means 
of  subsistence."  May  he  have  his  reward!  Most 
pathetic  is  an  anecdote  related  by  Mr.  H.  C.  Rob- 


PICT  OR  IGNOTUS.  383 

inson,  who  found  himself  one  morning  sole  visitor 
at  an  Exhibition  which  Blake  had  opened,  on  his 
own  account,  at  his  brother  James's  house.  In 
view  of  the  fact  that  he  had  bought  four  copies  of 
the  Descriptive  Catalogue,  Mr.  Robinson  inquired 
of  James,  the  custodian,  if  he  might  not  come 
again  free.  "  Oh,  yes  !  free  as  long  as  you  live!" 
was  the  reply  of  the  humble  hosier,  overjoyed  at 
having  so  munificent  a  visitor,  or  a  visitor  at  all. 

We  have  a  sense  of  incongruity  in  seeing  this 
defiant,  but  sincere  pencil  employed  by  publishers 
to  illustrate  the  turgid  sorrow  of  Young's  "  Night 
Thoughts."  The  work  was  to  have  been  issued 
in  parts,  but  got  no  farther  than  the  first.  (It 
would  have  been  no  great  calamity,  if  the  poem 
itself  had  come  to  the  same  premature  end !) 
The  sonorous  mourner  could  hardly  have  recog 
nized  himself  in  the  impersonations  in  which  he 
was  presented,  nor  his  progeny  in  the  concrete 
objects  to  which  they  were  reduced.  The  well- 
known  couplet, 

"  'T  is  greatly  wise  to  talk  with  our  past  hours 
And  ask  them  what  report  they  've  borne  to  heaven," 

is  represented  by  hours  "  drawn  as  aerial  and 
shadowy  beings,"  some  of  whom  are  bringing 
their  scrolls  to  the  inquirer,  and  others  are  carry 
ing  their  records  to  heaven. 

"  Oft  burst  my  song  beyond  the  hounds  of  life  " 
has  a  lovely  figure,  holding  a  lyre,  and  springing 


384          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

into  the  air,  but  confined  by  a  chain  to  the  earth. 
Death  puts  off  his  skeleton,  and  appears  as  a 
solemn,  draped  figure ;  but  in  many  cases  the 
clerical  poet  is  "  taken  at  his  word,"  with  a  liter- 
alness  more  startling  than  dignified. 

Introduced  by  Flaxman  to  Hayley,  friend  and 
biographer  of  Cowper,^  favorably  known  to  his 
contemporaries,  though  now  wellnigh  forgotten, 
Blake  was  invited  to  Felpham,  and  began  there  a 
new  life.  It  is  pleasant  to  look  back  upon  this 
period.  Hayley,  the  kindly,  generous,  vain,  im 
prudent,  impulsive  country  squire,  not  at  all  ex 
cepting  himself  in  his  love  for  mankind,  pouring 
forth  sonnets  on  the  slightest  provocation,  —  in 
deed,  so  given  over  to  the  vice  of  verse,  that 

"  he  scarce  could  ope 
His  mouth  but  out  there  flew  a  trope," — 

floating  with  the  utmost  self-complacence  down 
the  smooth  current  of  his  time  ;  and  Blake,  sensi 
tive,  unique,  protestant,  impracticable,  aggressive  : 
it  was  a  rare  freak  of  Fate  that  brought  about 
such  companionship ;  yet  so  true  courtesy  was 
there  that  for  four  years  they  lived  and  wrought 
harmoniously  together,  —  Hayley  pouring  out  his 
harmless  wish-wash,  and  Blake  touching  it  with 
his  fiery  gleam.  Their  joint  efforts  were  hardly 
more  pecuniarily  productive  than  Blake's  single- 
handed  struggles ;  but  his  life  here  had  other  and 
better  fruits.  In  the  little  cottage  overlooking  the 
sea,  fanned  by  the  pure  breezes,  and  smiled  upon 


PIC  TOR   IGNOTUS.  385 

by  sunshine  of  the  hills,  he  tasted  rare  spiritual 
joy.  Throwing  off  mortal  incumbrance,  —  never,, 
indeed  an  overweight  to  him,  —  he  revelled  in  his 
clairvoyance.  The  lights  that  shimmered  across 
the  sea  shone  from  other  worlds.  The  purple  of 
the  gathering  darkness  was  the  curtain  of  God's 
tabernacle.  Gray  shadows  of  the  gloaming  as 
sumed  mortal  shapes,  and  he  talked  with  Moses 
and  the  prophets,  and  the  old  heroes  of  song. 
The  Ladder  of  Heaven  was  firmly  fixed  by  his 
garden-gate,  and  the  angels  ascended  and  de 
scended.  A  letter  written  to  Flaxman,  soon  after 
his  arrival  at  Felpham,  is  so  characteristic  that  we 
cannot  refrain  from  transcribing  it :  — 

"  DEAR  SCULPTOR  OF  ETERNITY,  —  We  are  safe 
arrived  at  our  cottage,  which  is  more  beautiful 
than  I  thought  it,  and  more  convenient.  It  is  a 
perfect  model  for  cottages,  and,  I  think,  for  pal 
aces  of  magnificence,  —  only  enlarging,  not  alter 
ing,  its  proportions,  and  adding  ornaments,  and 
not  principles.  Nothing  can  be  more  grand  than 
its  simplicity  and  usefulness.  Simple,  without  in 
tricacy,  it  seems  to  be  the  spontaneous  expression 
of  humanity,  congenial  to  the  wants  of  man.  No 
other  formed  house  can  ever  please  me  so  well, 
nor  shall  ,1  ever  be  persuaded,  I  believe,  that  it 
can  be  improved,  either  in  beauty  or  use. 

"  Mr.  Hayley  received  us  with  his  usual  broth 
erly  affection.  I  have  begun  to  work.  Felpham 

17  Y 


886          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

is  a  sweet  place  for  study,  because  it  is  more  spir 
itual  than  London.  Heaven  opens  here  on  all 
sides  her  golden  gates;  her  windows  are  not  ob 
structed  by  vapors  ;  voices  of  ^celestial  inhabitants 
are  more  distinctly  heard,  and  their  forms  are 
more  distinctly  seen ;  and  my  cottage  is  also  a 
shadow  of  their  houses.  My  wife  and  sister  are 
both  well,  courting  Neptune  for  an  embrace. 

"  Our  journey  was  very  pleasant ;  and  though 
we  had  a  great  deal  of  luggage,  no  grumbling. 
All  was  cheerfulness  and  good-humor  on  the  road, 
and  yet  we  could  not  arrive  at  our  cottage^  before 
half-past  eleven  at  night,  owing  to  the  necessary 
shifting  of  our  luggage  from  one  chaise  to  an 
other  ;  for  we  had  seven  different  chaises,  and  as 
many  different  drivers.  We  set  out  between  six 
and  seven  in  the  morning  of  Thursday,  with  six 
teen  heavy  boxes  and  portfolios  full  of  prints. 

"And  now  begins  a  new  life,  because  another 
covering  of  earth  is  shaken  off.  I  am  more  famed 
in  heaven  for  my  works  than  I  could  well  con 
ceive.  In  my  brain  are  studies  and  chambers 
filled  with  books  and  pictures  of  old,  which  I 
wrote  and  painted  in  ages  of  Eternity,  before  my 
mortal  life,  and  those  works  are  the  delight  and 
study  of  archangels.  Why,  then,  should  I  be 
anxious  about  the  riches  or  fame  of  mortality? 
The  Lord  our  Father  will  do  for  us  and  with  us 
according  to  His  Divine  will,  for  our  good. 

"You,  O  dear  Flaxman,  are   a  sublime   arch- 


PICT  OR  IGNOTUS.  387 

angel,  —  my  friend  and  companion  from  Eternity. 
In  the  Divine  bosom  is  our  dwelling-place.  I  look 
back  into  the  regions  of  reminiscence,  and  behold 
our  ancient  days,  before  this  earth  appeared  in  its 
vegetated  mortality  to  my  mortal  vegetated  eyes. 
I  see  our  houses  of  eternity,  which  can  never 
be  separated,  though  our  mortal  vehicles  should 
stand  at  the  remotest  corners  of  heaven  from  each 
other. 

"  Farewell,  my  best  friend  !  Remember  me 
and  my  wife  in  love  and  friendship  to  our  dear 
Mrs.  Flaxman,  whom  we  ardently  desire  to  enter 
tain  beneath  our  thatched  roof  of  rusted  gold. 
And  believe  me  forever  to  remain  your  grateful 
and  affectionate 

"  WILLIAM  BLAKE." 

Other  associations  than  spiritual  ones  mingle 
with  the  Felpham  sojourn.  A  drunken  soldier 
one  day  broke  into  his  garden,  and,  being  great 
of  stature,  despised  the  fewer  inches  of  the  owner. 
But  to  the  conflict  between  spirits  of  earth  and 
spirits  of  the  skies  there  is  but  one  issue,  and 
Blake  "  laid  hold  of  the  intrusive  blackguard, 
and  turned  him  out  neck  and  crop,  in  a  kind  of 
inspired  frenzy."  The  astonished  ruffian  made . 
good  his  retreat,  but  in  revenge  reported  sundry 
words  that  exasperation  had  struck  from  his  con 
queror.  The  result  was  a  trial  for  high  treason 
at  the  next  Quarter  Sessions.  Friends  gathered 


388          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

about  him,  testifying  to  his  previous  character; 
nor  was  Blake  himself  at  all  dismayed.  When 
the  soldiers  trumped  up  their  false  charges  in 
court,  he  did  not  scruple  to  cry  out,  "  False !  " 
with  characteristic  and  convincing  vehemence. 
Had  this  trial  occurred  in  our  own  day,  it  would 
hardly  be  necessary  to  say  that  he  was  trium 
phantly  acquitted.  But  fifty  years  ago  such  a 
matter  wore  a  graver  aspect.  In  his  early  life 
he  had  been  an  advocate  of  the  French  Revolu 
tion,  an  associate  of  Price,  Priestley,  Godwin,  and 
Tom  Paine,  a  wearer  of  white  cockade  and  bonnet 
rouge.  He  had  even  been  instrumental  in  saving 
Tom  Paine's  life,  by  hurrying  him  to  France, 
when  the  government  was  on  his  track ;  but  all 
this  was  happily  unknown  to  the  Chichester  law 
yers,  and  Blake,  more  fortunate  than  some  of  his 
contemporaries,  escaped  the  gallows. 

The  disturbance  caused  by  this  untoward  inci 
dent,  the  repeated  failures  of  literary  attempts, 
the  completion  of  Cowper's  Life,  which  had  been 
the  main  object  of  his  coming,  joined,  doubtless, 
to  a  surfeit  of  Hayley,  induced  a  return  to  Lon 
don.  He  feared,  too,  that  his  imaginative  faculty 
was  failing.  "  The  visions  were  angry  with  me 
at  Felpham,"  he  used  afterwards  to  say.  We  re 
gret  to  see,  also,  that  he  seems  not  always  to  have 
been  in  the  kindest  of  moods  towards  his  patron. 
Indeed,  it  was  a  weakness  of  his  to  fall  out  occa 
sionally  with  his  best  friends ;  but  when  a  man  is 


PICTOR  IGNOTUS.  389 

waited  upon  by  angels  and  ministers  of  grace,  it  is 
not  surprising  that  he  should  sometimes  be  impa 
tient  with  mere  mortals.  Nor  is  it  difficult  to 
imagine  that  the  bland  and  trivial  Hayley,  per 
petually  kind,  patronizing,  and  obvious,  should, 
without  any  definite  provocation,  become  present 
ly  insufferable  to  such  a  man  as  Blake. 

Returning  to  London,  he  resumed  the  produc 
tion  of  his  "  prophetic  books."  These  he  illus 
trated  with  his  own  peculiar  and  beautiful  designs, 
"  all  sanded  over  with  a  sort  of  golden  mist." 
Among  much  that  is  incoherent  and  incompre 
hensible  may  be  found  passages  of  great  force, 
tenderness,  and  beauty.  The  concluding  verses 
of  the  Preface  to  "  Milton  "  we  quote,  as  shadow 
ing  forth  his  great  moral  purpose,  and  as  reveal 
ing  also  the  luminous  heart  of  the  cloud  that  so 
often  turns  to  us  only  its  gray  and  obscure  exte 
rior:  — 

"  And  did  those  feet  in  ancient  time 

Walk  upon  England's  mountain  green  1 
And  was  the  holy  Lamb  of  God 

On  England's  pleasant  pastures  seen  ? 

"  And  did  the  countenance  Divine 

Shine  forth  upon  our  clouded  hills  ? 
And  was  Jerusalem  builded  here 
Among  these  dark,  Satanic  hills  1 

"  Bring  me  my  bow  of  burning  gold  ! 

Bring  me  my  arrows  of  desire  ! 
Bring  me  my  spear !  0  clouds,  unfold ! 
Bring  me  my  chariot  of  fire  ! 


390          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

"  I  will  not  cease  from  mental  fight, 

Nor  shall  my  sword  sleep  in  my  hand, 
Till  we  have  built  Jerusalem 

In  England's  green  and  pleasant  land." 

The  same  lofty  aim  is  elsewhere  expressed  in 
the  line,  — 

"  I  touch  the  heavens  as  an  instrument  to  glorify  the  Lord !  " 
• 

We  can  only  glance  at  a  few  of  the  remain 
ing  incidents  of  this  outwardly  calm,  yet  inward 
ly  eventful  life.  In  an  evil  hour  —  though  to  it 
we  owe  the  "  Illustrations  to  Blair's  Grave  "  — 
he  fell  into  the  hands  of  Cromek,  the  shrewd 
Yorkshire  publisher,  and  was  tenderly  entreated, 
as  a  dove  in  the  talons  of  a  kite.  The  famous  let 
ter  of  Cromek  to  Blake  is  one  of  the  finest  exam 
ples  on  record  of  long-headed  worldliness  bearing 
down  upon  wrong-headed  genius.  Though  Cro 
mek  clutched  the  palm  in  this  case,  and  in  some 
others,  it  is  satisfactory  to  know  that  his  clever 
turns  led  to  no  other  end  than  poverty ;  and 
nothing  worse  than  poverty  had  Blake,  with  all 
his  simplicity,  to  encounter.  But  Blake,  in  his 
poverty,  had  meat  to  eat  which  the  wily  publisher 
knew  not  of. 

In  the  wake  of  this  failure  followed  another. 
Blake  had  been  engaged  to  make  twenty  draw 
ings  to  illustrate  Ambrose  Philips's  "  Virgil's  Pas 
torals  "  for  school-boys.  The  publishers  saw  them, 
and  stood  aghast,  declaring  he  must  do  no  more. 
The  engravers  received  them  with  derision,  and 


PICT  OR   IGNOTUS.  391 

pronounced  sentence,  "This  will  never  do."  En 
couraged,  however,  by  the  favorable  opinion  of  a 
few  artists  who  saw  them,  the  publishers  admitted, 
with  an  apology,  the  seventeen  which  had  already 
been  executed,  and  gave  the  remaining  three  into 
more  docile  hands.  With  two  hundred  and  thirty 
cuts,  the  book  now  is  valued  only  for  Blake's 
small  contribution. 

Of  an  entirely  different  nature  were  the  "  In 
ventions  from  the  Book  of  Job,"  which  are  pro 
nounced  the  most  remarkable  series  of  etchings 
on  a  Scriptural  theme  that  have  been  produced 
since  the  days  of  Rembrandt  and  Albrecht  Diirer. 
Of  these  drawings  we  have  copies  in  the  second 
volume  of  the  "  Life,"  from  which  one  can  gather 
something  of  their  grandeur,  their  bold  originality, 
their  inexhaustible  and  often  terrible  power.  His 
representations  of  God  the  Father  will  hardly  ac 
cord  with  modern  taste,  which  generally  eschews 
all  attempt  to  embody  the  mind's  conceptions  of 
the  Supreme  Being ;  but  Blake  was  far  more 
closely  allied  to  the  ancient  than  to  the  modern 
world.  His  portraiture  and  poetry  often  remind 
us  of  the  childlike  familiarity  —  not  rude  in  him, 
but  utterly  reverent  —  which  was  frequently,  and 
sometimes  offensively,  displayed  in  the  old  miracle 
and  moral  plays. 

These  drawings,  during  the  latter  part  of  his 
life,  secured  him  from  actual  want.  A  generous 
friend,  Mr.  Linnell,  himself  a  struggling  young 


392          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

artist,  gave  him  a  commission,  and  paid  him  a 
small  weekly  stipend :  it  was  sufficient  to  keep  the 
wolf  from  the  door,  and  that  was  enough :  so  the 
wolf  was  kept  away,  his  lintel  was  uncrossed 
'gainst  angels.  It  was  little  to  this  piper  that  the 
public  had  no  ear  for  his  piping,  —  to  this  painter, 
that  there  was  no  eye  for  his  pictures. 

"  His  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart." 

He  had  but  to  withdraw  to  his  inner  chamber, 
and  all  honor  and  recognition  awaited  him.  The 
pangs  of  poverty  or  coldness  he  never  experi 
enced,  for  his  life  was  on  a  higher  plane  :  — 

"  I  am  in  God's  presence  night  and  day, 
He  never  turns  his  face  away." 

When  a  little  girl  of  extraordinary  beauty  was 
brought  to  him,  his  kindest  wish,  as  he  stood  strok- 

O 

ing  her  long  ringlets,  was,  "  May  God  make  this 
world  to  you,  my  child,  as  beautiful  as  it  has  been 
to  me  !  "  His  own  testimony  declares,  — 

"  The  angel  who  presided  at  my  birth 
Said,  — '  Little  creature,  formed  of  joy  and  mirth, 
Go,  love  without  the  help  of  anything  on  earth  ! '  " 

But  much  help  from  above  came  to  him.  The 
living  lines  that  sprung  beneath  his  pencil  were 
but  reminiscences  of  his  spiritual  home.  Immor 
tal  visitants,  unseen  by  common  eyes,  hung  en 
raptured  over  his  sketches,  lent  a  loving  ear  to  his 
songs,  and  left  with  him  their  legacy  to  Earth. 
There  was  no  looking  back  mournfully  on  the 


PICTOR  IGNOTUS.  393 

past,  nor  forward  impatiently  to  the  future,  but  a 
rapturous,  radiant,  eternal  now.  Every  morning 
came  heavy-freighted  with  its  own  delights ;  every 
evening  brought  its  own  exceeding  great  reward. 

So,  refusing  to  the  last  to  work  in  traces,  —  fly 
ing  out  against  Reynolds,  the  bland  and  popular 
President  of  the  Royal  Academy,  yet  acknowl 
edging  with  enthusiasm  what  he  deemed  to  be 
excellence,  —  loving  Fuseli  with  a  steadfast  love 
through  all  neglect,  and  hurling  his  indignation  at 
a  public  that  refused  to  see  his  worth,  —  flouting 
at  Bacon,  the  great  philosopher,  and  fighting  for 
Barry,  the  restorer  of  the  antique,  he  resolutely 
pursued  his  appointed  way  unmoved.  But  the 
day  was  fast  drawing  on  into  darkness.  The  firm 
will  never  quailed,  but  the  sturdy  feet  faltered. 
Yet,  as  the  sun  went  down,  soft  lights  overspread 
the  heavens.  Young  men  came  to  him  with  fresh 
hearts,  and  drew  out  all  the  freshness  of  his  own. 
Little  children  learned  to  watch  for  his  footsteps 
over  the  Hampstead  hills,  and  sat  on  his  knee, 
sunning  him  with  their  caresses?1  Men  who  tow 
ered  above  their  time,  reverencing  the  god  within, 
and  bowing  not  down  to  the  dcemon  a  la  mode, 
gathered  around  him,  listened  to  his  words,  and 
did  obeisance  to  his  genius.  They  never  teased 
him  with  unsympathetic  questioning,  or  enraged 
him  with  blunt  contradiction.  They  received  his 
visions  simply,  and  discussed  them  rationally, 
deeming  them  worthy  of  study  rather  than  of 

17* 


394          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

ridicule  or  vulgar  incredulity.  To  their  requests 
the  spirits  were  docile.  Sitting  by  his  side  at 
midnight,  they  watched  while  he  summoned  from 
unknown  realms  long-vanished  shades.  William 
Wallace  arose  from  his  "gory  bed,"  Edward  I. 
turned  back  from  the  lilies  of  France,  and,  forget 
ting  their  ancient  hate,  both  stood  before  him  with 
placid  dignity.  The  man  who  built  the  Pyramids 
lifted  his  ungainly  features  from  the  ingulfing  cen 
turies  ;  souls  of  blood-thirsty  men,  duly  forced  in 
to  the  shape  of  fleas,  lent  their  hideousness  to  his 
night ;  and  the  Evil  One  himself  did  not  disdain 
to  sit  for  his  portrait  to  this  undismayed  magician. 
That  these  are  actual  portraits  of  concrete  objects 
is  not  to  be  affirmed.  That  they  are  portraits  of 
what  Blake  saw  is  as  little  to  be  denied.  We  are 
assured  that  his  \vh<5le  manner,  was  that  of  a  man 
copying,  and  not  inventing,  and  the  simplicity  and 
sincerity  of  his  life  forbid  any  thought  of  inten 
tional  deceit.  No  criticism  affected  him.  Nothing 
could  shake  his  faith.  "It  must  be  right:  I  saw 
it  so,"  was  the  beginning  and  end  of  his  defence. 
The  testimony  of  these  friends  of  his  is  that  he 
was  of  all  artists  the  most  spiritual,  devoted,  and 
single-minded.  One  of  them  says,  if  asked  to 
point  out  among  the  intellectual  a  happy  man,  he 
should  at  once  think  of  Blake.  One,  a  young 
artist,  finding  his  invention  flag  for  a  whole  fort 
night,  had  recourse  to  Blake. 

"  It  is  just  so  with  us,"  he  exclaimed,  tuniing 


PICTOR  IGNOTUS.  395 

to  his  wife,  "  is  it  not,  for  weeks  together,  when 
the  visions  forsake  us?  What  do  we  do  then., 
Kate?" 

"  We  kneel  down  and  pray,  Mr.  Blake." 
To  these  choice  spirits,  these  enthusiastic  and 
confiding  friends,  his  house  was  the  House  of  the 
Interpreter.  The  little  back-room,  kitchen,  bed 
room,  studio,  and  parlor  in  one,  plain  and  neat, 
had  for  them  a  kind  of  enchantment.  That  royal 
presence  lighted  up  the  "  hole "  into  a  palace. 
The  very  walls  widened  with  the  greatness  of  his 
soul.  The  windows  that  opened  on  the  muddy 
Thames  seemed  to  overlook  the  river  of  the  water 

• 

of  life.  Among  the  scant  furnishings,  his  high 
thoughts,  set  in  noble  words,  gleamed  like  apples 
of  gold  in  pictures  of  silver.  Over  the  gulf  that 
yawns  between  two  worlds  he  flung  a  glorious 
arch,  and  walked  tranquilly  back  and  forth. 
Heaven  was  as  much  a  matter-of-fact  to  him  as 
earth.  Of  sacred  things  he  spoke  with  a  famili 
arity  which,  to  those  who  did  not  understand  him, 
seemed  either  madness  or  blasphemy ;  but  his 
friends  never  misunderstood.  With  one  excep 
tion,  none  who  knew  him  personally  ever  thought 
of  calling  his  sanity  in  question.  To  them  he  was 
a  sweet,  gentle,  lovable  man.  They  felt  the  truth 
of  his  life.  They  saw  that 

"  Only  that  fine  madness  still  he  did  retain 
Which  rightly  should  possess  a  poet's  brain." 

Imagination  was  to  him  the  great  reality.     The 


396         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

external,  that  which  makes  the  chief  conscious 
ness  of  most  men,  was  to  him  only  staging,  cum 
bersome  and  uncouth,  but  to  be  endured  and 
made  the  most  of.  The  world  of  the  imagination 
was  the  true  world.  Imagination  bodied  forth  the 
forms  of  things  unknown  in  a  deeper  sense,  per 
haps,  than  the  great  dramatist  meant.  His  poet's 
pen,  his  painter's  pencil  turned  them  to  shapes, 
and  gave  to  airy  nothings  a  local  habitation  and  a 
name.  Nay,  he  denied  that  they  were  nothings. 
He  rather  asserted  the  actual  existence  of  his 
visions,  —  an  existence  as  real,  though  not  of  the 
same  nature,  as  that  of  the  bed  or  the  table. 
Imagination  was  a  kind  of  sixth  sense,  and  its 
objects  were  as  real  as  the  objects  of  the  other 
senses.  This  sense  he  believed  to  exist,  though 
latent,  in  every  one,  and  to  be  susceptible  of  de 
velopment  by  cultivation.  This  is  surely  a  very 
different  thing  from  madness.  Neither  is  it  the 
low  superstition  of  ghosts.  He  recounted  no 
miracle,  nothing  supernatural.  It  was  only  that 
by  strenuous  effort  and  untiring  devotion  he  had 
penetrated  beyond  the  rank  and  file  —  but  not  be 
yond  the  possibilities  of  the  rank  and  file  —  into 
the  unseen  world.  Undoubtedly  this  power  final 
ly  assumed  undue  proportions.  In  his  isolation 
it  led  him  on  too  unresistingly.  His  generation 
knew  him  not.  It  neglected  where  it  should  have 
fostered,  and  stared  where  it  should  have  studied. 
He  was  not  wily  enough  to  conceal  or  gloss  over 


PICTOR  IGNOTUS.  397 

* 

his  views.  Often  silent  with  congenial  compan 
ions,  he  would  thrust  with  boisterous  assertion  in 
the  company  of  captious  opponents.  Set  upon 
by  the  unfriendly  and  the  conventional,  he  wil 
fully  hurled  out  his  wild  utterances,  exaggerating 
everything,  scorning  all  explanation  or  modifica 
tion,  goading  peculiarities  into  reckless  extrava 
gance,  on  purpose  to  puzzle  and  startle,  and  so 
avenging  himself  by  playing  off  upon  those  who 
attempted  to  play  off  upon  him.  To  the  gentle, 
the  reverent,  the  receptive,  he  too  was  gentle  and 
reverent. 

Nearest  and  dearest  of  all,  the  "beloved  Kate  " 
held  him  in  highest  honor.  The  ripples  that  dis 
turbed  the  smooth  flow  of  their  early  life  had  died 
away  and  left  an  unruffled  current.  To  the  child 
less  wife,  he  was  child,  husband,  and  lover.  No 
sphere  so  lofty,  but  he  could  come  quickly  down  to 
perform  the  lowliest  duties.  The  empty  platter, 
silently  placed  on  the  dinner-table,  was  the  signal 
for  his  descent  from  Parnassus  to  the  money-earn 
ing  graver.  No  angel-faces  kept  him  from  lighting 
the  morning  fire  and  setting  on  the  breakfast-kettle 
before  his  Kitty  .awoke.  Their  life  became  one. 
Her  very  spirit  passed  into  his.  By  day  and  by 
night  her  love  surrounded  him.  In  his  moments 
of  fierce  inspiration,  when  he  would  arise  from  his 
bed  to  sketch  or  write  the  thoughts  that  tore  his 
brain,  she  too  arose  and  sat  by  his  side,  silent,  mo 
tionless,  soothing  him  only  by  the  tenderness  of 


398          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

her  presence.  Years  and  wintry  fortunes  made 
havoc  of  her  beauty,  but  love  renewed  it  day 
by  day  for  the  eyes  of  her  lover,  and  their  hands 
only  met  in  firmer  clasp  as  they  neared  the  Dark 
River. 

It  was  reached  at  last.  No  violent  steep,  but  a 
gentle  and  gracious  slope  led  to  the  cold  waters 
that  had  no  bitterness  for  him.  Shining  already 
in  the  glory  of  the  Celestial  City,  he  gazed  upon 
the  dear  form  that  had  stood  by  his  side  through 
all  these  years,  and  with  waning  strength  he 
cried,  "  Stay !  Keep  as  you  are !  You  have 
been  ever  an  angel  to  me:  I  will  draw  you." 
And,  summoning  his  forces,  he  sketched  his  last 
portrait  of  the  fond  and  faithful  wife.  Then,  com 
forting  her  with  the  shortness  of  their  separation, 
assuring  her  that  he  should  always  be  about  her 
to  take  care  of  her,  he  set  his  face  steadfastly  to 
wards  the  Beautiful  Gate.  So  joyful  was  his  pas 
sage,  so  triumphant  his  march,  that  the  very  sight 
was  to  them  that  could  behold  it  as  if  heaven  it 
self  were  come  down  to  meet  him.  Even  the 
sorrowing  wife  could  but  listen  enraptured  to  the 
sweet  songs  he  chanted  to  his  •  Maker's  praise ; 
but,  "  They  are  not  mine,  my  beloved ! "  he  ten 
derly  cried;  "No!  they  are  not  mine!"  The 
strain  he  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood ;  and  con 
tinually  sounding  as  he  went,  with  melodious 
noise,  in  notes  on  high,  he  entered  in  through  the 
gates  into  the  City. 


XXIX. 


MY.  BOOK. 


HE  trouble  about  biographies  is  that 
by  the  time  they  are  written  the  per 
son  is  dead.  You  have  heard  of  him 
remotely.  You  know  that  he  sang  a 
world's  songs,  won  victories,  founded  empires,  did 
heroes'  work ;  but  you  do  not  know  the  little 
tender  touches  of  his  life,  the  things  that  bring 
him  into  near  kinship  with  humanity,  and  set 
him  by  the  household  hearth  without  unclasping 
the  diadem  from  his  brow,  until  he  is  dead,  and 
it  is  too  late  forevermore.  Then  with  vague  rest 
lessness  you  visit  the  brook  in  wThich  his  trout- 
line  drooped,  you  pluck  a  leaf  from  the  elm  that 
shaded  his  regal  head,  you  walk  in  the  graveyard 
that  holds  in  its  bosom  his  silent  dust,  only  to  feel 
with  unavailing  regret  that  no  sunshine  of  his 
presence  can  gleam  upon  you.  The  life  that 
stirred  in  his  voice,  shone  in  his  eye,  and  for- 
tressed  itself  in  his  unconscious  bearing  can  make 
to  you  no  revelation.  It  is  departed,  none  knows 


400  SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

whither.  lie  is  as  much  a  part  of  the  past  as  if 
he  had  tended  flocks  for  Abraham  on  the  plains 
of  Mamre. 

This,  when  biographies  are  at  their  best.  Gen 
erally,  they  are  at  their  worst.  Generally,  they 
do  not  know  the  things  you  wish  to  learn,  and 
when  they  do,  they  do  not  tell  them.  They  give 
you  statistics,  facts,  reflections,  eulogies>  disserta 
tions  ;  but  what  you  hunger  and  thirst  after  is  the 
man's  inner  life.  What  use  is  it  to  know  what 
a  man  does,  unless  you  know  what  made  him  do 
it?  This  you  can  seldom  learn  from  memoirs. 
Look  at  the  numerous  brood  that  followed  in  the 
wake  of  Shelley's  fame.  Every  one  gives  you, 
not  Shelley,  but  himself,  served  up  in  Shelley 
sauce.  Think  of  your  own  experience :  are  not 
the  vital  facts  of  your  life  hermetically  sealed  ? 
Are  you  not  a  world  within  a  world,  whose  history 
and  geography  may  be  summed  up  in  that  phrase 
which  used  to  make  the  interior  of  Africa  the  most 
delightful  spot  in  the  whole  atlas,  —  "  Unexplored 
Region  "  ?  One  person  may  have  started  an  ex 
pedition  here,  and  another  there.  Here  one  may 
have  struck  a  river-course,  and  there  one  may 
have  looked  down  into  a  valley,  and  all  may  have 
brought  away  their  golden  grain  ;  but  the  one 
has  not  followed  the  river  to  its  source,  nor  the 
other  wandered  bewilderingly  through  the  val 
ley-lands,  and  none  have  traversed  the  Field  of 
the  Cloth  of  Gold.  So  the  geographies  are  all 


MY  BOOK.  401 

alike,  boundaries,  capital,  chief  towns,  rivers.  And 
what  is  true  of  you  is  doubtless  true  of  all.  Faith 
is  not  to  be  put  in  biographies. 

Whether  you  were  susceptible  of  calmness  or 
were  deeply  turbulent,  —  whether  you  were  ami 
able,  or  only  amiably  disposed,  —  whether  you 
were  inwardly  blest  and  only  superficially  unrest- 
ful,  safely  moored  even  while  tossing  on  an  un 
quiet  sea,  —  what  you  thought,  what  you  hoped, 
how  you  felt,  yes,  and  how  you  lived  and  loved 
and  hated,  they  do  not  know  and  cannot  tell.  A 
biographer  may  be  ever  so  conscientious,  but  he 
stands  on  the  outside  of  the  circle  of  his  subject, 
and  his  view  will  lack  symmetry.  There  is  but 
one  who,  from  his  position  in  the  centre,  is  compe 
tent  to  give  a  fair  and  full  picture,  and  that  is  your 
own  self.  A  few  may  possess  imagination,  and  so 
partially  atone  for  the  disadvantages  of  position ; 
but,  a  thousand  to  one,  they  will  not  have  a  chance 
at  your  life.  You  must  die  knowing  that  you  are 
at  the  mercy  of  whoever  can  hold  a  pen. 

Unless  you  take  time  by  the  forelock  and  write 
your  biography  yourself!  Then  you  will  be  sure 
to  do  no  harm,  inasmuch  as  no  one  is  obliged  to 
read  your  narrative  ;  and  you  may  do  much  good, 
because,  if  any  one  does  read  it  and  become  inter 
ested  in  you,  he  will  have  the  pleasing  conscious 
ness  of  living  in  the  same  world  with  you.  When 
he  drives  through  your  street,  he  can  put  his  head 
out  of  the  carriage- window  and  perhaps  see  you 


402          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

just  going  in  at  the  front  gate.  Also,  if  you  write 
your  biography  yourself,  you  can  have  your  choice 
as  to  what  shall  go  in  and  what  shall  stay  out. 
You  can  make  a  discreet  selection  of  your  letters, 
giving  the  go-by  to  that  especial  one  in  which  you 
rather  —  is  there  such  a  word  as  spooneyly  ?  —  of 
fered  yourself  to  your  wife.  Every  word  was  as 
good  as  the  bank  to  her,  for  to  her  you  were  a  lov 
er,  a  knight,  a  great  brown,  bearded  angel,  and  all 
metaphors,  however  violent,  fell  upon  good  ground. 
But  to  the  people  who  read  your  life  you  will  be 
a  trader,  a  lawyer,  a  shoemaker,  who  pays  his 
butcher's  bills  and  looks  after  the  main  chance, 
and  the  metaphors,  deprived  of  their  fire,  but  re 
taining  their  form,  will  seem  incongruous,  not  to 
say  ridiculous.  I  do  not  say  that  your  wife's  lover 
and  knight  and  angel  are  not  a  higher  and  a  bet 
ter,  yes,  and  a  truer  you,  than  the  world's  trader 
and  lawyer;  still  your  love-letters  will  probably  be 
better  off  in  the  bosom  of  the  love-lettered  than 
on  a  bookseller's  shelves.  Besides  these  advanta 
ges,  there  is  another  in  pra>humous  publication. 
If  you  wait  for  your  biography  till  you  are  dead, 
it  is  extremely  probable  you  will  lose  it  altogether. 
The  world  has  so  much  to  see  to  ahead  that  it  can 
hardly  spare  a  glance  over  its  shoulder  to  take 
note  of  what  is  behind.  Take  the  note  yourself 
and  make  sure  of  it.  You  will  then  know  where 
you  are,  and  be  master  of  the  situation. 

I  purpose,  therefore,  to  write  the  history  of  ray 


MY  BOOK.  403 

life,  from  my  entrance  upon  it  down  to  a  period 
which  is  within  the  memory  of  men  still  living. 
In  so  doing,  I  shall  not  be  careful  to  trace  out  that 
common  ground  which  may  be  supposed  to  under 
lie  all  lives,  but  only  indicate  those  features  which 
serve  to  distinguish  one  from  another.  Every 
body  is  christened,  cuts  his  teeth,  and  eats  bread 
and  molasses.  Silently  will  we,  therefore,  infer 
the  bread  and  molasses,  and  swiftly  stride  in  seven- 
league  boots  from  mountain-peak  to  mountain- 
peak. 

I  was  born  of  parents  who,  though  not  poor, 
were  respectable,  and  I  had  also  the  additional 
distinction  of  being  a  precocious  child.  I  differed 
from  most  precocious  children,  however,  in  not 
dying  young,  and  that  opportunity,  once  let  slip,  is 
now  forever  gone.  I  believe  the  precocious  child 
ren  who  do  not  die  young  develop  into  idiots. 
My  family  have  never  been  without  well-grounded 
fears  in  that  line. 

Nothing  of  any  importance  happened  to  me 
after  I  was  born  till  I  grew  up  and  wrote  a  book. 
Indeed,  I  believe  I  may  say  even  that  never  hap 
pened,  for  I  did  not  write  a  book.  Rather  a  book 
came  to  pass,  —  somewhat  like  the  goldsmithery 
of  Aaron,  who  threw  the  ear-rings  into  the  fire, 

O  ftt-  ' 

and  "  there  came  out  this  calf!  "  I  went  out  one 
day  alone,  as  was  my  wont,  in  an  open  boat,  and 
drifted  beyond  sight  of  land.  I  had  heard  that 
shipwrecked  mariners  sometimes  throw  out  a  bot- 


404         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

tie  of  papers  to  give  their  friends  a  clew  to  their 
fate.  I  threw  out  a  bottle  of  papers,  less  out  of 
regard  to  -friends  than  to  myself.  They  float 
ed  into  a  printing-press,  and  came  forth  a  book, 
•whereon  I  sailed  safely  ashore,  grateful.  Alas ! 
in  another  confusion  will  there  be  another  re 
source  ? 

It  is  this  book  which  is  to  form  the  first,  and 
quite  possibly  the  last  chapter  of  my  life  and  suf 
ferings,  for  I  don't  suppose  anything  will  ever  hap 
pen  to  me  again.  To  be  sure,  in  the  book  I  have 
just  been  reading  a  girl  marries  her  groom,  leaves 
him,  rejects  two  lovers,  kills  her  husband,  accepts 
one  lover,  loses  him,  marries  the  second,  first  hus 
band  comes  to  light  again  and  is  shot,  marries 
second  husband  over  again,  and  goes  a-journeying 
with  second  husband  and  first  lover,  first  cousin 
and  two  children,  in  the  South  of  France,  before 
she  is  twenty-two  years  old.  But  in  my  country 
girls  think  themselves  extremely  well  off  for  ad 
ventures  with  one  marriage  and  no  murder.  But 
then  the  girls  in  my  country  do  not  have  the 
murderous  black  eyes  which  shine  so  in  romances. 

My  book  being  fairly  set  a-going,  of  course  you 
wish  to  know  what  came  of  it.  Do  not  pretend 
you  don't  care,  for  you  know  you  do.  Only  look 
not  too  closely  at  me,  or  you  will  disconcert  me. 
Veil  now  and  then  your  intent  eyes,  or  my  story 
will  surely  droop  under  their  steadfastness.  Look 
sometimes  into  yonder  sunset  sky  and  the  beauti- 


MY  BOOK.  405 

ful  reticulations  drawn  darkly  against  its  glowing 
sheets  of  color.  You  will  none  the  less  listen,  and 
I  shall  all  the  more  enjoy. 

You  have  read  much  about  the  anxieties,  the 
forebodings,  the  anticipatory  tremors  of  new  au 
thors.  So  have  I,  but  I  never  felt  them,  —  not  a 
single  foreboding.  I  was  delighted  to  write  a 
book,  and  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  everybody 
would  not  be  just  as  delighted  to  read  it.  The 
first  time  my  book  weighed  on  me  was  one  morn 
ing  when  a  meagre  little  letter  came  to  me,  which 
turned  out  to  be  only  a  card  bearing  the  laconic 
inscription,  — 

"  Twelve  copies  '  New  Sun  '  sent  by  express, 
with  the  compliments  of  the  Publishers." 

The  "  New  Sun  "  was  my  book.  I  put  on  my 
hat  and  walked  straightway  up  to  the  hole  in  the 
rock,  about  a  mile  around  the  corner,  where  the 
expressman  always  leaves  my  parcels,  and  took  up 
the  package  to  bring  home.  It  was  very  heavy. 
I  balanced  it  first  on  one  arm  and  then  on  the 
other,  until,  as  the  poet  has  it,  — 

"  Both  were  nigh  to  breaking." 

Then  I  lifted  it  by  the  cords,  but  they  cut  my 
fingers.  Then  I  remembered  the  natural  law, 
that  internal  atmospheric  pressure  prevents  any 
consciousness  of  the  enormous  external  pressure 
exerted  by  an  atmosphere  forty-five  miles  thick, 
and  applied  the  law,  saying,  "  These  books  all  being 


406          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

inside  of  my  head,  of  course  I  shall  not  feel  them 
on  the  outside."  So  I  put  the  package  on  my 
head,  and  walked  on,  making  believe  I  was  in  a 
gymnasium,  keeping  a  sharp  watch  fore  and  aft, 
and  considering  the  distant  rumbling  of  wheels 
a  signal  for  dousing  my  colors.  In  my  country 
people  do  not  carry  their  burdens  on  their  heads, 
nor  would  they  be  likely  to  account  for  me  on  the 
principles  of  Natural  Philosophy.  I  might  have 
been  apprehended  as  a  lunatic,  but  for  my  timely 
caution. 

Thus  the  "New  Suns"  came  home  and  were 
speedily  stripped  of  their  dun  wrappings.  I  lin 
gered  over  them,  admiring  their  clear  type,  their 
fragrance,  their  crispness.  I  opened  them  wide, 
because  they  would  open  so  frankly.  I  delighted 
myself  with  their  fair  smoothness.  And  then  I 
began  to  read.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  never 
read  a  more  interesting  book  ! 

How  very  true  it  is  that  suffering  is  about 
equally  distributed,  after  all !  If  you  do  not  have 
your  troubles  spread  out,  you  have  them  in  a 
lump.  The  furies  may  seem  to  be  held  in  abey 
ance,  but  they  will  only  lay  on  their  lashes  all  the 
harder  when  they  do  come.  My  unnatural  calm 
ness  was  succeeded  by  a  storm  of  consternation. 
I  pass  over  the  few  days  that  followed.  If  you 
ever  put  yourself  into  a  pillory  in  the  night  just 
to  see  how  it  seemed,  and  then  found  your.-rlf 
fastened  there  in  good  earnest,  and  day  dawning, 


MY  BOOK.  407 

and  all  the  marketmen  and  shopkeepers  up  and 
stirring,  and  everybody  coming  by  in  a  few  min 
utes,  you  will  not  need  to  ask  how  I  felt.  When 
you  write  a  book,  you  are  quite  alone  and  your 
pen  is  entirely  private  ;  but  when  it  comes  to  you 
so  unquestionably  printed,  and  inexorable,  and 

out-of-doors Ah,  me  !     It  did  not  seem  like  a 

book  at  all,  —  not  at  all  the  abstraction  and  imper 
sonality  that  were  intended,  but  a  concrete  person 
walking  out  into  the  world  with  malice  afore 
thought 

But  though  a  writer  is  before  critics,  did  it  nev 
er  occur  to  you  that  the  critics  are  just  as  much 
before  the  writers?  A  critic's  talk  about  a  book 
is  just  as  truly  a  revelation  of  the  critic  as  the 
writer's  talk  in  the  book  is  a  revelation  of  the 
writer.  One  man  gives  you  an  opinion  that  im 
plies  attention.  He  does  not  go  into  the  depths 
of  the  matter,  but  he  tells  you  honestly  what  he 
likes  and  what  he  does  not  like.  This  is  good. 
This  is  precisely  what  you  wish  to  know,  and  will 
indirectly  help  you.  Another,  from  the  steps  of 
a  throne,  in  a  few  sentences,  it  may  be,  or  a  few 
columns,  classifies  you,  interprets  you  not  only  to 
the  world,  but  to  yourself;  and  for  this  you  are 
immeasurably  glad  and  grateful.  It  is  neither 
praise  nor  censure  that  you  value,  but  recognition. 
Let  a  writer  but  feel  that  a  critic  reaches  into  the 
arcana  of  his  thought,  and  no  assent  is  too  hearty, 
nor  any  dissent  too  severe.  Another  glances  up 


408          SKIRMISHES  AXD  SKETCHES. 

from  his  eager  political  strife,  and  with  the  sin- 
cerest  kindness  awards  you  a  nice  little  bon-bon, 
chiefly  flour  and  water,  but  flavored  with  sugar. 
Thank  you.  Another  flounders  in  a  wash  of 
words,  holding  in  solution  the  faintest  salt  of 

'  O 

sense.  Heaven  help  him  !  Another  dips  his 
spear-point  in  poison  and  lets  fly.  Do  you  not 
see  that  these  people  are  an  open  book  ?  Do  you 
not  read  here  the  tranquillity  of  a  self-poised  life, 
the  inner  sight  of  clairvoyance,  the  bitterness  of 
disappointed  hopes  and  unsuccessful  plans,  the 
amiability  that  is  not  founded  upon  strength,  the 
pettiness  that  puts  pique  above  principle,  the 
frankness  that  scorns  affectation,  the  comprehen 
siveness  that  embraces  all  things  in  its  vision,  and 
commands  not  only  acquiescence,  but  allegiance, 
the  great-heartedness  that  by  virtue  of  its  own 
magnetism  attracts  all  that  is  good? 

When  my  poor  little  ewe-lamb  went  out  into 
the  world,  I  did  not  fear  any  shearing  it  might 
encounter  in  America.  I  do  not  mind  my  own 
countrymen.  I  like  them,  but  I  am  not  afraid  of 
them.  Two  elements  go  to  make  up  a  book:  mat 
ter  and  manner.  The  former,  of  course,  is  its  au 
thor's  own.  He  maintains  it  against  all  comers. 
Opposition  does  not  terrify  him,  for  it  is  a  mere 
difference  of  opinion.  One  is  just  as  likely  to  be 
right  as  another,  and  in  a  hundred  years  probably 
we  shall  all  be  found  wrong  together.  But  man 
ner  can  be  judged  by  a  fixed  standard.  Bad  Eng- 


MY  BOOK.  409 

lisli  is  bad  English  this  very  day,  whatever  you  or 
I  think  about  it ;  and  bad  English  is  a  bad  thing. 
When  I  know  it,  I  avoid  it,  except  under  extreme 
temptation ;  but  the  trouble  is,  I  do  not  know  it. 
I  am  continually  learning  that  words  in  certain 
relations  are  misplaced  where  I  never  suspected 
the  smallest  derangement,  and,  no  doubt,  there 
are  many  dislocations  which  I  have  not  yet  dis 
covered.  So  far  as  my  own  people  are  concerned, 
I  do  not  take  this  to  heart,  —  because  my  country 
man  very  likely  perpetrates  three  barbarisms  in 
correcting  my  one.  He  knows  this  thing  that  I 
did  not,  but  then  I  know  something  else  that  he 
does  not,  and  so  keep  the  balance  true.  More 
over,  my  America,  if  I  use  bad  English,  whose 
fault  is  it?  You  have  had  me  from  the  beginning. 
The  raw  material  was  as  good  as  the  average ; 
why  did  you  not  work  it  up  better?  I  went  to 
the  best  schools  you  gave  me.  I  learned  every 
thing  I  was  set  to  learn.  You  can  nowhere  find 
a  teacher  who  will  tell  you  that  I  ever  evaded  a 
lesson.  I  was  greedy  of  gain.  I  spared  neither 
time  nor  toil.  I  lost  no  opportunity,  and  here  I 
am,  just  as  good  as  you  made  me.  So,  if  there  is 
any  one  to  blame,  it  is  you,  for  not  giving  me  bet 
ter  facilities.  The  Children's  Aid  Society  warned 
New  York  a  dozen  years  ago  that  a  "  dangerous 
class  of  untaught "  pagans  was  growing  up  in  her 
streets ;  but  she  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to 
arouse  herself  and  educate  them,  and  one  morning 

18 


410          SKIRMISH&S  AND  SKETCHES. 

she  found  them  burning  her  house  over  her  head. 
You  too,  my  country,  have  been  repeatedly  warn 
ed  of  your  dangerous  class,  a  class  whom,  with 
malice  aforethought,  you  leave  half  educated,  and, 
from  ignorance,  idle,  —  and  now  f.omes  Nemesis  ! 
New  York  had  a  mob,  and  you  have  —  me. 

The  real  ogres  were  those  terrible  Englishmen. 
I  was  brought  up  on  the  British  Quarterlies. 
Their  high  and  mighty  ways  entered  into  my  soul. 
I  never  did  have  any  courage  or  independence,  to 
begin  with ;  and  when  they  condescended  to  tread 
our  shores  with  such  lordly  airs,  I  should  have 
been  only  too  glad  to  burn  incense  for  a  propi 
tiation.  So  impressive  was  their  loftiness,  their 
haughty  patronage,  that  their  supercilious  sneers 
at  our  provincialism  were  heart-rending.  I  came 
to  look  at  everything  with  an  eye  to  English  judg 
ment.  It  was  not  so  much  whether  a  book  or  a 
custom  were  good  as  whether  it  would  be  likely  to 
meet  with  English  approval.  To  be  the  object  of 
their  displeasure  was  a  calamity,  and  at  even  a 
growl  from  their  dreadful  throats  I  was  ready  to 
die  of  terror. 

But  it  so  happened  that  by  the  time  my  book 
was  set  afloat,  the  Reviewers  had  lost  their  fangs. 
The  Avar  came,  and  they  went  over  to  the  enemy, 
every  one  :  "  North  British,"  "  London  Quarter 
ly,"  "  Edinburgh,"  and  even  the  liberal  "  West 
minster,"  had  but  one  tone.  "  Blackwood  "  was 
seized  with  an  evil  spirit,  and  wallowed  foaming. 


MY  BOOK.  411 

The  English  people  may  be  all  right  at  heart. 
Their  slow,  but  sure  and  sturdy  sense  may  bring 
them  at  length  within  hailing  distance  of  the 
truth.  Noble  men  among  them,  Mill  and  Cairnes 
and  Smith  and  their  kind,  made  their  voices  heard 
in  the  midst  of  opposing  din,  even  through  the 
very  pages  which  had  rung  with  Southern  cheers: 
but  it  is  not  the  English  people  who  make  up  the 
Quarterly  Reviews.  It  was  not  the  voice  of  Mill 
or  Cairnes  that  answered  first  across  the  waters  to 
the  boom  of  Liberty's  guns.  When  our  blood 
was  hot  and  our  hearts  were  high,  and  sneers  ten 
thousand  times  harder  to  bear  than  blows,  we 
found  sneers  in  plenty  where  we  looked  for  God 
speed.  It  may  not  have  been  the  English  heart, 
only  the  English  head.  But  we  could  not  get  at 
the  English  heai't,  and  the  English  head  was  con 
tinually  thrust  against  ours.  The  fires  may  have 
burned  warmly  on  .many  a  hearth,  but  we  could 
not  see  them.  The  only  light  that  shot  athwart 
the  waters  was  from  the  high  watch-towers,  and  it 
was  lurid.  This  wrought  a  change.  The  English 
may  put  on  airs  in  literature ;  for  our  little  leisure 
leaves  us  short  repose,  and  it  would  be  strange  in 
deed,  if  their  civilization  of  centuries  had  not  left 
its  marks  in  a  finer  culture  and  a  deeper  thought. 
But  when,  leaving  literature  and  coming  down 
into  the  fastnesses  of  life,  they  gave  us  hatred  for 
love,  and  scorn  for  reverence,  —  when  they  sneer 
ed  at  that  which  we  held  sacred,  and  reviled  that 


412          SKIRMISHES  AXD   SKETCHES. 

which  we  counted  honorable,  —  when,  green-eyed 
and  gloating,  they  not  only  saw  through .  thc'ir 
glasses  darkly,  but  all  things  were  distorted  and 
awry,  —  when  devotion  became  to  them  fanati 
cism,  and  love  of  liberty  was  lust  of  power, — 
did  virtue  go  out  of  them,  or  had  it  never  been 
in?  This,  at  least,  was  wrought:  when  one  part 
of  the  temple  of  our  reverence  was  undermined, 
the  whole  structure  came  down.  They  who 
showed  themselves  so  morally  weak  cannot  main 
tain  even  the  intellectual  or  aesthetic  superiority 
which  they  have  assumed.  Henceforth  their  blame 
or  praise  is  not  what  it  was.  When  a  man  rails 
at  my  country,  it  is  little  that  he  rails  at  me.  If 
they  have  called  the  master  of  the  house  Beelze 
bub,  they  of  his  household  would  as  soon  be  called 
little  flies  as  anything  else. 

(As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  do  not  suppose  my  little 
venture  has  ever  been  heard  of  across  the  ocean. 
You  think  it  is  very  presumptuous  in  me  ever  to 
have  thought  of  it ;  but  I  did  not  think  of  it.  I 
was  only  afraid  of  it.  Suppose  the  British  Quar 
terly  has  not  vision  microscopic  enough  to  discern 
you ;  you  like  to  know  how  you  feel  in  a  certain 
contingency,  even  if  it  should  never  happen.  Be 
sides,  so  many  strange  things  arise  every  day,  that 
incongruity  seems  to  have  lost  its  force.) 

But  if  we  only  did  reverence  England  as  once 
we  reverenced  her,  this  is  what  I  would  say :  — 
"  Upon  my  country  do  not  visit  my  sins.  Upon 


MY  BOOK.  413 

my  country's  fame  let  me  fasten  no  blot.  Wher 
ever  I  am  wrong,  inelegant,  inaccurate,  provincial, 
visit  all  your  reprobation  upon  me,  — 

'  Me,  me,  adsum,  qui  feci ;  in  me  convertite  ferrum, 
O  Angli !  mea  fraus  omnis,' — 

upon  me  as  a  writer,  not  upon  me  as  an  Ameri 
can.  Do  not  regard  me  as  the  exponent  of  Amer 
ican  culture,  or  as  anywhere  near  the  high-water 
mark  of  American  letters.  If  you  will  see  the 
highest,  look  on  the  heights.  If  you  look  at  me, 
look  at  me  where  I  am :  not  among  those  whose  in 
fancy  was  cradled  in  art  and  luxury,  whose  life  from 
the  beginning  has  been  carefully  attuned  to  the 
finest  issues,  who  for  purity  of  language  and  digni 
ty  of  mental  bearing  may  throw  down  the  gauntlet 
to  the  proudest  nation  in  the  world,  —  but  among 
those  wild  children  of  the  soil  who  take  its  color, 
who  share  its  qualities,  who  give  out  its  fragrance, 
who  love  it  and  lay  their  hearts  to  it  and  grow 
with  it,  rocky  and  rugged,  yet  cherish,  it  may  be 
hoped,  its  little  dimples  of  verdure  here  and  there, 
—  who  show  not  what,  with  closest  care,  it  might 
become,  but  what,  under  the  broad  skies  and  the 
free  winds  and  the  common  dews  and  showers,  it 
is.  Our  conservatories  can  boast  hues  as  gor 
geous,  forms  as  stately,  texture  as  fine  as  yours; 
but  don't  look  for  camellias  in  a  cornfield." 

Does  this  seem  a  little  inconsistent  with  what  I 
was  saying  just  now  to  my  home-made  critics? 


414          SKIRJulSHMS  AXD  SKETCHES. 

Very  likely.  But  truth  is  many-sided,  and  one 
side  you  may  present  at  home  and  the  other 
abroad,  according  to  the  exigencies  of  the  case, 
without  being  inconsistent. 

O  England,  England  !  what  shall  recompense 
us  for  our  Lost  Leader  ?  Great  and  Mighty  One, 
from  whose  brow  no  hand  but  thine  own  could 
ever  have  plucked  the  crown !  Beautiful  land, 
sacred  with  the  ashes  of  our  sires,  radiant  with 
the  victories  of  the  past,  brilliant  with  hopes  for 
the  future,  — 

"  O  Love,  I  have  loved  you  !     O  my  soul, 
I  have  lost  you  !  " 

Ah,  if  these  fatal  years  might  be  blotted  out  I 
If  we  could  stand  once  again  where  we  stood  on 
that  October  day  when  the  young  Prince,  whose 
gentle  blood  commanded  our  attention,  and  whose 
gentle  ways  won  our  hearts,  bore  back  to  his 
mother-land  and  ours  the  benedictions  of  a  people ! 
Upon  that  white-faced  shore  I  shall  one  day  look, 
but  woe  is  me  for  the  bitter  memories  that  will 
spring  up  for  the  love  and  loyalty  so  ruthlessly 
rent  away  I 

So  I  borrow  your  ears,  my  countrymen,  and  tell 
you  why  it  is  impossible  to  defer  to  you  as  much 
as  one  would  like.  Partly,  it  is  because  you  talk 
so  wide  of  the  mark.  It  may  not- be  practicable 
or  desirable  to  say  murh  ;  but  so  much  the  more 
ought  what  you  do  say  to  be  to  the  point.  A 


MY  BOOK.  415 

good  carpenter  needs  not  to  vindicate  his  skill  by 
hammering  away  hour  after  hour  on  the  same 
shingle ;  but  while  he  does  strike,  he  hits  the  nail 
on  the  head.  Moreover,  you  show  by  your  re 
marks  that  you  have  such  —  such  —  well,  stupid 
is  what  I  mean,  but  I  am  afraid  it  would  not  be 
polite  to  employ  that  word,  so  I  merely  give  you 
the  meaning,  and  leave  you  to  choose  a  word  to 
your  liking  —  notions  about  the  nature,  the  facts, 
and  the  objects  of  writing.  Look  at  it  a  moment. 
With  your  gray  goose-quill  you  sit,  O  Rhadaman- 
thus,  and  to  your  waiting  audience  pleasantly 
enough  affirm  that  I  have  "  taken  Benlomond  for 
my  model."  But  when  I  happen  to.  remember 
that  the  larger  part  of  my  book  was  written  and 
printed  not  only  before  I  had  ever  met  Benlo 
mond,  but  before  he  had  ever  been  heard  of  in 
this  country  at  least,  what  faith  can  I  have  in 
your  sagacity?  And  when,  remembering  those 
remarkable  coincidences  which  sometimes  surprise 
and  baffle  us,  which  in  science  make  Adams  and 
Le  Verrier  discover  the  same  planet  at  the  same 
time  without  knowing  anything  of  each  other's 
calculations,  and  which  in  any  department  seem 
to  indicate  that  a  great  tide  sweeps  over  humaii- 
it}r,  bearing  us  on  its  bosom  whithersoever  it  will, 
so  that 

"  God's  puppets,  best  and  worst, 
Are  we ;  there  is  no  last  nor  first," — 

I  institute  an  examination  of  Benlomond  to  dis- 


416          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

cover  those  generic  or  specific  peculiarities  which 
are  supposed  to  have  made  their  mark  on  me, 
why,  I  find  for  resemblance,  that  the  situations, 
look  you,  is  both  alike.  There  is  a  river  in  Mace- 
don  ;  there  is  also,  moreover,  a  river  in  Mon- 
mouth :  't  is  as  like  as  my  fingers  to  my  fingers, 
and  there  is  salmons  in  both  ! 

Have  I  taken  Benlomond  for  my  model  ?  But 
why  not  Josephus  and  Ricardo  and  Francois  and 
Michel,  any  and  all  who  have  poured  their  fancies 
and  feelings  into  this  mould?  Why  select  the 
last  disciple  and  ignore  the  first  apostle?  Muny 
prophets  have  been  in  Israel  whom  I  resemble  as 
much,  to  say  the  least,  as  this  Benlomond.  Is  it  not, 
my  friend,  that,  in  the  multitude  of  your  words 
and  ways,  you  have  not  found  time  to  renew 
your  acquaintance  with  these  ancient  worthies, 
and  so  their  features  have  somewhat  faded  from 
your  memory  ?  But  Benlomond  came  in  but  yes 
terday,  and  because  he  is  a  newspaper-topic,  him 
you  know ;  and  because  at  the  first  blush  you 
doubtless  can  read  that  there  is  a  river  in  Mon- 
mouth  and  also  a  river  in  Macedon,  and  salmons 
in  both,  —  't  is  as  like  as  my  fingers  to  my  fingers, 
and  Monmouth  was  built  on  the  model  of  Mace- 
don  !  Ah,  my  eagle-eyes,  Judaea,  too,  had  its  Jor 
dan,  and  Damascus  its  Abana  and  Pharpar,  and 
little  Massachusetts  its  Merrimac,  which, 

"  poet-tuned, 
Goes  singing  down  his  meadows.1* 


MY  BOOK.  417 

But  Judaea  did  not  type  Damascus.  The  Mem- 
mac  bears  not  the  sign  of  Abana,  nor  was  Abana 
born  of  Jordan :  all,  obedient  to  the  word  of  the 
Lord,  trickle  forth  from  their  springs  among  the 
hills,  and  wander  down,  one  through  his  vineland, 
one  through  his  olive-groves,  and  one  to  meet  the 
roaring  of  the  mill-wheel's  rage. 

I  lay  no  claim  to  originality.  I  know  full  well 
that  the  soil  has  been  tilled  and  the  seed  scattered 
of  all  that  is  worthy  in  the  world.  Where  giants 
have  wrestled,  it  is  not  for  pigmies  to  boast  their 
prowess.  Where  the  gods  have  trodden,  let  mor 
tals  walk  unsandalled.  The  lowliest  of  their  learn 
ers,  I  sit  at  the  feet  of  the  masters.  To  me,  as  to 
all  the  world,  the  great  and  the  good  of  the  olden 
times  have  left  their  legacy,  and  the  monarchs  of 
to-day  have  scattered  blessings.  Upon  me,  as 
upon  all,  have  their  grateful  showers  descended. 
My  brow  have  they  crowned  with  their  goodness, 
and  on  my  life  have  their  paths  dropped  fatness. 
Dreaming  under  their  vines  and  fig-trees,  I  have 
gathered  in  my  lap  and  garnered  in  my  heart  their 
mellow,  fruits. 

"  With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal 

And  seek  relief  in  woe, 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe, 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedewed 
With  tears  of  heartfelt  gratitude." 

But  though  with  gladness  I  render  unto  Caesar 
the  things  that  are  Cassar's,  he  shall  not  have  that 

18*  AA 


418         SKIJIMISH8B  AND  SKETCHES. 

which  does  not  belong  to  him.  Neither  Benlo- 
mond,  nor  any  living  man,  nor  any  one  man, 
living  or  dead,  has  any  claim  to  my  fealty,  be  it 
worth  much  or  little.  If  I  cannot  go  in  to  the 
banquet  on  Olympus  by  the  bidding  of  the  master 
of  the  feast,  I  will  forswear  ambrosia  altogether, 
and  to  the  end  of  my  days  feed  on  millet  with  the 
peasants  in  the  Vale  of  Tempe. 

Then,  changing  ground,  you  smile  and  shake 
your  head  and  say,  "  It  is  all  very  well,  but  it  has 
not  the  element  of  immortality.  Observe  the  dif 
ference  between  this  writer  and  Charles  Lamb. 
One  is  ginger-pop  beer  that  foams  and  froths  and 
is  gone,  while  the  other  is  the  sound  Madeira  that 
will  be  better  fifty  years  hence  than  now." 

Well,  what  of  it?  Do  you  mean  to  say,  that, 
because  a  man  has  no  argosies  sailing  in  from  the 
isles  of  Eden,  freighted  with  the  juices  of  the 
tropics,  he  shall  not  brew  hops  in  his  own  cellar? 
Because  you  will  have  none  but  the  vintages  of 
dead  centuries,  shall  not  the  people  delight  their 
hearts  with  new  wine?  Because  you  are  an- epi 
cure,  shall  there  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale  ?  Go 
to!  It  is  a  happy  fate  to  be  a  poet's  Falernian, 
old  and  mellow,  sealed  in  amphorce,  to  be  crowned 
with  linden-garlands  and  the  late  rose.  But  for 
all  earth's  acres  there  are  few  Sabine  farms, 
whither  poet,  sage,  and  statesman  come  to  lose  in 
the  murmur  of  Bandusian  founts  the  din  of  fac 
tion  and  of  strife ;  and  even  there  it  is  not  al- 


MY  BOOK.  419 

ways  Caecuban  or  Calenian,  neither  Formian  nor 
Falernian,  but  the  vile  Sabinum  in  common  cups 
and  wreathed  with  simple  myrtle,  that  bubbles 
up  its  welcome.  So,  since  there  must  be  lighter 
draughts,  or  many  a  poor  man  go  thirsty,  we  who 
are  but  the  ginger-pop  of  life  may  well  rejoice, 
remembering  that  ginger-pop  is  nourishing  and 
tonic,  —  that  thousands  of  weary  wayfarers  who 
could  never  know  the  taste  of  the  costly  brands, 
and  who  go  sadly  and  wearily,  will  be  fleeter  of 
foot  and  gladder  of  soul  because  of  its  humble  and 
evanescent  foam. 

Ginger-pop  beer  is  it  that  you  scoff?  Verily, 
you  do  an  unconsidered  deed.  When  one  re 
members  all  the  liquids,  medicinal,  soporific,  in 
sipid,  poisonous,  which  flood  the  throat  of  human 
ity,  one  may  deem  himself  a  favorite  of  Fortune 
to  be  placed  so  high  in  the  catalogue.  Though 
upon  his  lowliness  gleam  down  the  rosy  and  pur 
ple  lights  of  rare  old  wines  aloft,  yet  fr.om  his  alti 
tude  he  can  look  below  upon  a  profane  crowd  in 
thick  array  of  depth  immeasurable,  and  rejoice 
that  he  is  not  stagnant  water  nor  exasperated 
vinegar  nor  disappointed  buttermilk.  Nay,  I  am 
not  only  content,  but  exultant.  It  may  be  an 
ignoble  satisfaction,  yet  I  believe  I  would  rather 
flash  and  fade  in  one  moment  of  happy  daylight 
than  be  corked  and  cobwebbed  for  fifty  years  in 
the  gloom  of  an  unsunned  cellar,  with  a  remote 
possibility,  indeed,  of  coming  up  from  my  incar- 


420          SKIRMISHES  AXD  SKETCHES. 

ceration  to  moisten  the  lips  of  beauty  or  loosen 
the  tongue  of  eloquence,  but  with  a  far  surer  pros 
pect  of  but  adding  one  more  to  the  potations  'of 
the  glutton  and  wine-bibber. 

And  what,  after  all,  is  this  oblivion  which  you 
flaunt  so  threateningly  ?  Even  if  I  do  encounter 
it,  no  misfortune  will  happen  unto  me  but  such  as 
is  common  unto  men.  Of  all  the  souls  of  this 
generation,  the  number  that  will  sift  through  the 
meshes  of  the  years  is  infinitesimally  small.  The 
overwhelming  majority  of  names  will  turn  out  to 
be  chaff,  and  be  blown  away.  I  shall  be  forgotten, 
but  I  shall  be  forgotten  in  very  good  company. 
The  greater  part  of  my  kinsfolk  and  acquaint 
ance,  your  own  self,  my  critic,  and  your  family 
and  friends,  will  go  down  in  the  same  oblivion 
which  ingulfs  me.  When  I  am  dead,  T  shall  be 
no  deader  than  the  rest  of  you,  and  I  shall  have 
been  a  great  deal  more  alive  while  I  was  alive. 

I  am  not  afraid  to  be  forgotten.  Posterity  will 
have  its  own  soothsayers,  and  somewhere  among 
the  stars,  I  trust,  I  shall  be  living  a  life  so  intense 
and  complete  that  I  shall  never  once  think  to  la 
ment  that  I  am  not  mulling  on  a  book-shelf  down 
here.  Besides,  if  you  insist  upon  it,  I  am  not  go 
ing  to  be  forgotten.  You  know  no  more  about  it 
than  I  do.  Knowledge  is  not  always  prescience. 
"  This  will  never  do,"  ruled  Jeffrey  from  his 
judgment-seat.  "  Order  reigns  in  Warsaw,"  pro 
nounced  Sebastiani.  "  I  have  now  gone  through 


MY  BOOK.  421 

the  Bible,"  chuckled  Tom  Paine,  "as  a  man 
would  go  through  a  wood  with  an  axe  on  his 
shoulder,  and  fell  trees.  Here  they  lie,  and  the 
priests,  if  they  can,  may  replant  them.  They 
may,  perhaps,  stick  them  in  the  ground,  but  they 
will  never  make  them  grow."  But  Wordsworth 
to-day  is  reverenced  by  the  nation  that  could  barb 
no  arrow  sharp  enough  to  shoot  at  him.  The 
evening  sky  that  bends  above  Warsaw  is  red  with 
the  watch-fires  of  her  old  warfare  bursting  anew 
from  their  smouldering  ashes.  And  the  oaks  that 
doughty  Paine  fancied  himself  to  have  levelled 
show  not  so  much  as  a  scratch  upon  their  sturdy 
trunks.  Nay,  I  do  not  forget  that  even  Charles 
Lamb  was  fiercely  belabored  by  his  own  genera 
tion.  So,  when  upon  me  you  pass  sentence  of 
speedy  death,  I  assure  you  that  I  shall  live  a  thou 
sand  years,  and  there  is  nobody  in  the  world  who 
can  demonstrate  that  I  am  in  the  wrong.  Even 
if  after  a  while  I  disappear,  it  proves  nothing ; 
you  cannot  tell  whether  I  am  really  submerged, 
or  only  lying  in  the  trough  of  the  sea  to  mount 
the  crest  of  the  coming  wave.  Till  the  thou 
sandth  year  proves  me  moribund,  I  shall  stoutly 
maintain  that  I  am  immortal. 

Concerning  Charles  Lamb  the  less  you  say  the 
better.  It  is  easy  to  build  up  a  reputation  for  sa 
gacity  by  offering  incense  to  the  gods  who  are  al 
ready  shrined.  Of  course  there  is  a  difference 
between  us.  A  pretty  rout  you  would  make,  if 


422          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

there  were  not.  But,  for  all  your  adoration  of 
Charles  Lamh,  I  dare  say  he  would  have  liked  me 
a  great  deal  better  than  he  would  you.  Would  ? 
Why  should  I  intrench  myself  in  hypothesis? 
Does  he  not?  When  I  knock  at  the  door  of  the 
Inner  Temple,  does  he  not  fling  it  wide  open,  and 
does  not  his  face  welcome  me  ?  When  the  red 
fire  glows  on  the  hearth,  have  I  not  sat  far  into 
the  night,  Bridget  sitting  beside  me  with  heaven's 
own  light  shining  in  her  beautiful  eyes,  and  above 
her  dear  head  the  white  gleam  of  guardian  angels 
hovering  tenderly,  —  herself  a  guardian  angel 
now  ?  And  when  Elia  arches  his  brows,  and  low 
ers  at  me  his  storm-clouds,  which  I  do  not  mind 
for  the  sunshine  that  will  not  be  hidden  behind 
them,  —  when  in  the  sweet  play  of  June  lights 
and  shadows,  and  the  golden  haze  of  Indian-sum 
mer,  I  forget  even  the  kingly  words  that  go  ring 
ing  through  the  land,  waking  the  mountain-echo, 
—  when  I  look  out  upon  this  gray  afternoon,  and 
see  no  leaden  skies,  no  pinched  and  sullen  fields, 
but  green  paths,  gem -bestrewn  from  autumn's 
jewelled  hand,  and  warm  light  glinting  through 
the  apple-trees  under  which  he  stood  that  soft 
October  day,  till 

"  Conscious  seems  the  frozen  sod 
And  beechen  slope  whereon  he  trod,"  — 

O  Alexander,  stand  out  of  my  sunshine  with  your 
bugbear  of  a  Charles  Lamb  !  "  I  have  heard  you 


MY  BOOK.  423 

for  some  time  with  patience.     I  have  been  cool, — 
quite  cool ;  but  don't  put  me  in  a  frenzy !  " 

When  you  have  satisfied  yourself  with  the  lim 
iting,  you  begin  on  the  descriptive  adjectives,  and 
pronounce  me  egotistical.  Certainly.  I  should  be 
unlike  all  others  of  my  race,  if  I  were  not.  It  is 
a  wise  and  merciful  arrangement  of  Providence, 
that  every  one  is  to  himself  the  centre  of  the  uni 
verse.  What  a  fatal  world  would  this  otherwise 
be  !  When  one  thinks  what  a  collection  of  insig 
nificances  we  are,  how  dispensable  the  most  useful 
of  us  is  to  everybody,  how  little  there  is  in  any 
of  us  to  make  any  one  care  about  us,  and  of  how 
small  importance  it  is  to  others  what  becomes  of 
us,  —  when  one  thinks  that  even  this  round  earth 
is  so  small,  that,  if  it  should  fall  into  the  arms  of 
the  sun,  the  sun  would  just  open  his  mouth  and 
swallow  it  whole,  and  nobody  ever  suspect  it, 
(vide  Tyndall  on  Heat,)  one  must  see  that  this 
self-love,  self-care,  and  self-interest  play  a  most 
important  part  in  the  Divine  economy.  If  one 
did  not  keep  himself  afloat,  he  would  surely  go 
under.  As  it  is,  however  disagreeable  a  person 
be,  he  likes  himself,  —  however  uninteresting,  he 
is  interested  in  himself.  Everybody — you,  my 
critic,  as  well  —  likes  to  talk  about  himself,  if  he 
can  get  other  people  to  listen ;  and  so  long  as  I 
can  get  several  thousand  people  to  listen,  I  shall 
keep  talking,  you  may  be  sure,  and  so  would 
you.  You  are  just  as  egotistical  as  I  am,  only 


424          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

you  will  not  own  it  frankly,  as  I  do.  True, 
I  might  escape  censure  by  using  such  circum 
locutions  as  "  the  writer/'  "  the  author,"  or, 
still  more  cumbrously,  by  dressing  out  some  fig 
ure,  calling  it  Frederic  or  Frederika,  and  then, 
like  the  Delphic  priestesses,  uttering  my  senti 
ments  through  its  mouth,  for  the  space  of  a  folio 
novel ;  but  it  would  be  my  own  self  all  the  while. 
Besides,  in  order  to  get  at  the  thing  I  wanted  to 
say,  I  should  have  to  detain  you  on  a  thousand 
things  that  I  did  not  care  about,  but  which  would 
be  necessary  as  links,  because,  when  you  have 
your  man,  you  must  do  something  with  him. 
You  cannot  leave  him  standing,  without  any  vis 
ible  means  of  support.  One  person  writes  a  novel 
of  four  hundred  pages  to  convince  you  in  a  round 
about  way,  through  thirty  different  characters,  that 
a  certain  law,  or  the  mode  of  administering  it,  is 
unjust.  He  does  not  mention  himself,  but  makes 
his  men  and  women  speak  his  arguments.  An 
other  man  writes  a  treatise  of  forty  pages,  and 
gives  you  his  views  out  of  his  own  mouth.  But 
lie  does  not  put  himself  into  his  treatise  any  more 
than  the  other  into  his  novel.  For  my  part,  I 
think  the  use  of  "  I  "  is  the  shortest  and  sim 
plest  way  of  promulgating  one's  opinions.  Even 
a  we  bulges  out  into  twice  the  space  that  /  re 
quires,  besides  seeming  to  try  to  evade  responsi 
bility.  Better  say  "/"  straight  out,  — "/,"  re 
sponsible  for  my  words  here  and  elsewhere,  as 


MY  BOOK.  425 

they  used  to  say  in  Congress  under  the  old 
regime.  Besides  being  the  most  brave,  "  I "  is 
also  the  most  modest.  It  delivers  opinions  to 
the  world  through  a  perfectly  transparent  me 
dium.  "  I  "  has  no  relations.  It  has  no  con 
sciousness.  It  is  a  pure  abstraction.  It  detains 
you  not  a  moment  from  the  subject.  "  The 
writer  "  does.  It  brings  up  ideas  entirely  de 
tached  from  the  theme,  and  is  therefore  imper 
tinent.  All  you  are  after  is  the  thing  that  is 
thought;  It  is  not  of  the  smallest  consequence 
who  thought  it.  You  may  be  certain  that  it  is 
not  always  the  people  who  use  "I"  the  most  free 
ly  who  think  most  about  themselves ;  and  if  you 
are  offended,  consider  whether  it  may  not  be  ow 
ing  to  a  certain  modern  morbidness  of  taste  in 
the  reader  as  much  as  to  egotism  in  the  offender. 

Remember,  also,  that,  when  a  writer  talks  of 
himself,  he  is  not  necessarily  speaking  of  his  own 
definite  John  Smithship,  that  does  the  marketing 
and  pays  the  taxes  and  is  a  useful  member  of 
society.  Not  at  all.  It  is  himself  as  a  unit 
of  the  great  sum  of  mankind.  He  means  him 
self,  not  as  an  isolated  individual,  but  as  a  part  of 
humanity.  His  narration  is  pertinent,  because  it 
relates  to  the  human  family.  He  brings  forward 
a  part  of  the  common  property.  He  does  not 
touch  that  which  pertains  exclusively  to  himself. 
His  self  is  self-created.  His  imaginative  may  have 
as  large  a  share  in  the  person  as  his  descriptive 


426          SKJJtMJSl/KS   AND   SKETCHES. 

powers.     You  do  not  understand   me   precisely  ? 
Well,  what  is  to  be  done  about  it  ? 

You  think  me  arrogant.  You  would  think  so  a 
great  deal  more,  if  you  knew  me  better.  At 
heart  I  believe  I  incline  very  much  to  the  opinion 
of  a  friend  of  mine,  that,  "after  all,  nobody  in 
the  world  is  of  much  account  but  Susy  and  me," 
—  only  in  my  formula  I  leave  out  Susy.  Think 
not,  therefore,  solely  of  the  arrogance  that  is  re 
vealed,  but  also  of  the  arrogance  concealed,  and 
in  consideration  of  the  greater  repression  pardon 
the  great  expression.  It  is  not  the  persons  who 
sin  the  least,  but  those  who  overcome  the  strong 
est  temptations,  who  are  the  most  virtuous.  Peo 
ple  endowed  by  nature  with  a  sweet  humility  do 
not  deserve  half  the  credit  for  their  lovely  charac 
ter  that  those  who  are  naturally  selfish  and  arro 
gant  often  deserve  for  being  no  more  disagreeable 
than  they  are.  Yes,  it  must  be  confessed,  you  are 
right  in  attributing  arrogance,  —  though,  after  this 
meek  confession  and  repentance,  if  you  do  not  for 
give  me  freely  and  fully,  for  past  and  future,  your 
secondary  will  be  a  great  deal  worse  than  my  origi 
nal  sin  ;  —  but  you  never  would  accuse  me  of  "  an 
arrogance  that  disdains  docility,"  if  you  could  see 
the  mean-spirited  way  in  which  I  sit  down  by  the 
side  of  an  editor  and  let  him  ram-page  over  my 
manuscript.  Out  fly  my  best  thoughts,  my  finest 
figures,  my  sharpest  epigrams,  —  without  chloro 
form, —  and  I  give  no  sign.  I  have  heard  that 


MY  BOOK.  427 

successful  authors  can  always  have  everything 
their  own  way.  I  must  be  the  greatest  failure 
of  the  age. 

"  It  will  he  much  better  to  omit  this,"  says  the 
High  Inquisitor,  turning  the  thumb-screw. 

"No,"  I  writhe.  "Take  everything  else,  but 
leave  that." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  agree  with  me," 
he  responds,  with  Mephistophelian  courtesy;  and 
away  it  goes,  and  I  say  nothing,  thankful  that 
anything  is  left. 

"  Revealing  somewhat  of  the  arrogance  of  suc 
cess,"  you  comment,  directed  by  your  Evil  Ge 
nius,  upon  that  especial  chapter  which  was  written 
in  a  gully  of  the  Valley  of  Humiliation,  when  I 
was  gasping  under  an  JEtna  of  rejected  manu 
scripts,  —  when  there  was  not  a  respectable  news 
paper  in  the  country  by  which  I  had  not  been 
"declined  with  thanks," — when,  in  the  despera 
tion  of  my  determination,  I  had  recourse  to  bri 
bery,  and  sent  an  editor  a  dollar  with  the  manu 
script,  to  pay  him  for  the  fifteen  minutes  it  would 
take  to  read  it.  (Mem.  I  never  heard  from  edi 
tor,  manuscript,  or  dollar.)  No,  it  may  be  arro 
gance,  but  it  is  not  the  arrogance  of  success. 
Whatever  it  was,  it  was  in  the  grain.  And,  to 
look  at  it  in  another  light,  I  cannot  have  been 
"  spoiled  by  the  indulgent  praise  which  my  early 
efforts  received,"  because  I  have  always  been 
praised,  — 


428        SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

"  Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  clays, 
I  fed  on  poisons,  till  they  had  no  power, 
But  were  a  kind  of  nutriment." 

The  earliest  event  I  remember  is  being  presented 
with  two  cents  by  one  of  the  "  Committee  "  visit 
ing  the  school.  And  if  I  could  stand  two  cents  in 
my  helpless  infancy,  don't  you  suppose  I  can  stand 
your  penny-a-lining  now  I  am  grown  up  ?  I  may 
have  been  spoiled,  or  I  may  not  have  been  worth 
much  to  begin  with;  but  the  mischief  was  all 
done  before  you  ever  heard  of  me.  Confine  your 
self  to  facts :  dismiss  conjectures.  State  actions : 
shun  motives.  Give  results :  avoid  causes,  if  you 
would  insure  confidence  in  your  sagacity. 

Furthermore,  you  say  that  with  abundant  de 
nunciation  of  present  evils,  my  book  contains  no 
practical  suggestions  for  their  removal,  —  and  this 
in  face  of  the  fact  that,  as  Chaucer  would  say,  it 
sneweth  in  that  book  of  practical  suggestions. 
But  they  are  so  simple  that  you  make  no  account 
of  them.  So  Naaman  of  old  went  to  Elisha  to  be 
healed  of  his  leprosy,  expecting  the  prophet  to 
come  out  and  work  a  miracle  with  great  pomp  and 
solemnity,  as  was  befitting  the  state  of  the  Lieuten 
ant-Gene  ral  of  the  army  of  Syria.  And  when 
Elisha  did  not  so  much  as  go  to  the  door,  but  si-nt 
a  servant  to  advise  the  great  man  to  wash  himself, 
no  wonder  he  went  away  in  a  rage.  That  was  a 
practical  suggestion,  indeed  !  However,  when  he 
suffered  his  wrath  to  subside  and  did  as  the  prophet 


MY  BOOK.  429 

bade  him,  his  flesh  came  again  like  unto  the  flesh 
of  a  little  child.  So  if  you,  august  cornplainer, 
will  but  be  docile,  and  not  insist  upon  being  told 
to  do  some  great  thing  that  shall  overturn  the 
foundations  of  society,  but  will  be  content  to  go 
into  your  own  family  circle  and  do  the  seven  and 
seventy  times  seven  little  things  that  I  counsel 
you  to  do,  you  will  become  sweet  and  pui'e  and 
innocent  like  a  little  child,  and  every  one  will  love 
you,  especially  they  which  are  of  your  own  house 
hold  ;  nor  will  you  ever  again  find  either  lack  or 
need  of  practical  suggestions. 

There  is  also  a  kind  of  stock  criticism  on  which 
a  large  class  of  critics  do  a  flourishing  business.  It 
is  no  new  thing,  for  the  Abbot  Trublet  well  de 
scribed  it  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago.  "  He 
(the  critic)  has  also  general  forms  of  censure  and 
commendation,  composed  wholly  of  terms  of  art. 
He  is  particularly  fond  of  such  as  dispense  with 
the  detail  of  proofs,  and  are  most  proper  to  make 
you  sensible  of  his  superiority  over  the  author  he 
pronounces  upon.  For  instance,  one  of  the  most 
common  judgments  he  passes  upon  works  just  pub 
lished  is  that  they  have  nothing  new  in  them  ";  to 
which  the  modern  critic  has  learned  to  add  "  nor 
do  they  present  old  things  with  any  new  force." 
Another  general  form  has  already  been  referred 
to,  that  of  holding  up  an  author  of  established 
reputation  with  the  discriminating  and  scholarly 
command  to  "  see  the  difference."  "  Compare 


430          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

with  Kingsley  and  note  the  difference."  "  Com 
pare  one  of  these  Essays  with  those  of  the  '  Coun 
try  Parson'  and  you  will  note  a  vast  difference." 
"  Compare  the  '  Religio  Medici '  with  the  '  New 
Sun '  and  the  immense  superiority  of  the  former 
over  the  latter  will  be  apparent  at  once," — a  form 
of  criticism  safe  and  therefore  sagacious.  Or, 
again  we  are  informed  that  "  this  book  might  have 
been  compressed  into  one  half  or  one  third  or  — 
the  vulgar  fraction  expanding  into  whatever  infi 
nite  decimal  the  critic  may  choose  —  the  space  it 
occupies.  Very  true.  It  might  not  have  been 
written  at  all,  while  you  are  about  it ;  as  country 
children  amuse  themselves  with  improving  on  the 

old  adage, 

"  He  that  would  thrive 
Must  rise  at  five." 

By  adding 

"  He  who'd  thrive  more 

Must  rise  at  four." 
"  He  who  the  best  would  be 

Must  rise  at  three." 

And  so  on,  till  they  arrive  at  the  conclusion,  — 

"  He  who  would  get  ahead 
Must  never  go  to  bed." 

It  must  be  confessed  that  these  people  are  wise 
in  their  generation ;  for,  to  write  a  real  criticism, 
to  set  the  strength  or  weakness  of  a  book  in  such 
clear  lights  that  all  may  see  it  for  themselves, 
to  pronounce  judgment  with  such  weight  that 


MY  BOOK.  431 

the  decision  shall  be  final,  is  a  work  of  high  art. 
It  requires  skill,  learning,  power,  genius,  atten 
tion.  It  creates  risk  and  involves  responsibility; 
while  any  noodle  can  make  a  general  statement 
which  all  the  other  noodles  shall  receive  as  pure 
gold.  But  though  such  criticism  may  be  indulged 
in  to  almost  any  extent,  and  with  entire  impunity, 
not  every  one  can  condense  it  into  the  elegant 
compactness  of  that  writer  who  closes  a  protest 
against  the  verbiage  of  a  certain  author  with  the 
assertion,  that  "  she  has  a  fatal  facility  of  expres 
sion  that  will  yet  be  the  death  of  her  "  / 

But  all  else  will  I  forgive  and  forget,  if  you  will 
not  tell  me  to  stop  writing.  That  I  cannot  and 
will  not  do.  You  may  iterate  and  reiterate,  that 
the  public  will  tire  of  me.  I  am  sorry  for  the 
public,  but  it  is  strong  and  will  be  easily  rested. 
Sorry  ?  No,  I  am  not ;  I  am  glad.  I  should  like 
to  pay  back  a  part  of  the  weariness  which  the 
public  has  inflicted  on  me  in  the  shape  of  les 
sons,  lectures,  sermons,  speeches,  customs,  fash 
ions.  Why  should  it  have  the  monopoly  of  fa 
tiguing?  Minorities  have  their  rights  as  well  as 
majorities.  The  spout  of  a  tea-kettle  is  not  to  be 
compared,  in  point  of  bulk,  to  the  tea-kettle,  but 
it  puts  in  a  claim  for  an  equal  depth  of  water,  and 
Nature  acknowledges  the  claim.  I  cannot  think 
of  reining  in  yet.  I  have  but  just  started.  And 
everything  is  so  interesting.  Nothing  is  isolated. 
Nothing  is  insignificant.  Everything  you  touch 


432          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

thrills.  It  seems  to  matter  but  little  what  you 
look  at :  only  look  long  enough,  and  a  life,  its  life, 
springs  up.  You  see  that  it  has  causes  and  conse 
quences,  dependencies,  hearings,  and  all  manner 
of  social  interests ;  and  before  you  know  it,  you 
have  become  involved  in  those  interests  and  are 
one  of  the  family.  For  the  time,  you  stake  all 
on  one  issue,  and  contend  valiantly.  As  soon 
as  that  is  decided,  and  you  stop  to  take  breath  a 
moment,  something  else  comes  equally  interesting 
and  seeming  equally  important,  and  again  your 
lance  is  in  rest.  When  it  comes  to  the  quantities 
of  morals,  there  is  not  much  difference  between 
one  thing  and  another.  And  you  ask  me  to  fold 
my  hands  and  sit  still !  Not  I.  I  promise  to  do 
the  best  I  can,  but  I  shall  do  it.  There  are 
rows  of  blocks  standing  around  the  walls  of  my 
studio,  waiting  to  be  chiselled.  They  will  not 
be  Apollos,  —  but  even  Puck  is  a  Robin  Goodfel- 

low,  since, 

• 

"  In  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 
His  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  corn 
That  ten  day-laborers  could  not  end." 

And  I  shall  not  confine  myself  to  my  sphere. 
I  hate  my  sphere.  I  like  everything  that  is  out 
side  of  it,  —  or,  better  still,  my  sphere  rounds  out 
into  undefined  space.  I  was  born  into  the  whole 
world.  I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey.  Wher 
ever  I  see  symptoms  of  a  pie,  thither  shall  my 
fingers  travel.  Wherever  a  windmill  flaps,  it  shall 


MY  BOOK.  433 

go  hard  but  I  will  have  a  tilt  at  it.  I  shall  not 
wait  till  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about.  If  I 
did,  I  never  should  talk  at  all.  It  is  a  well-known 
principle  in  educational  science,  that  the  surest 
way  to  learn  anything  is  to  teach  it.  How  fast 
would  Geology  get  on,  if  its  professors  talked  only 
of  what  they  knew  ?  Planting  their  feet  firmly 
on  facts,  they  feel  about  in  all  directions  for  theo 
ries.  By  carefully  noting,  publishing,  comparing, 
discussing  their  uncertainties,  they  presently  ar 
rive  at  a  certainty.  Horace  might  advocate  nine 
years'  delay.  He  was  building  for  himself  a  mon 
ument  that  should  defy  the  rolling  years.  He  was 
setting  to  work  in  cool  blood  to  compass  immortal 
ity,  and  a  little  time,  more  or  less,  made  no  differ 
ence.  Apollo  and  Bacchus  could  afford  to  wait. 
Beautiful  daughters  of  beautiful  mothers  will  exist 
to  the  world's  end,  and  their  praises  will  always  be 
in  order.  But  when,  unmindful  of  the  next  gen 
eration,  which  will  have  its  books  and  its  memo 
ries,  though  you  are  unread  and  forgotten,  mindful 
only  of  this  generation  which  groans  and  travails 
in  pain,  you  look  on  suffering  that  you  yearn  to 
assuage,  danger  of  which  you  long  to  warn,  sad 
ness  which  you  would  fain  dispel,  burdens  which 
you  would  strive,  though  ever  so  little,  to  lighten, 
delay,  even  for  things  so  desirable  as  complete 
knowledge  and  perfect  polish,  becomes  not  only 
absurd,  but  impossible.  Better  shoot  into  the 
cavern,  even  if  you  do  not  know  in  what  precise 

19  BB 


434          SKIRMISHES  AXD  SKETCHES. 

part  of  it  the  dragon  lies_  coiled.  The  flash  of 
your  powder  may  reveal  his  whereabouts  to  a 
surer  marksman.  A  transient  immortality  is  of 
no  importance ;  it  is  of  importance  that  hearts  be 
purified,  homes  made  happy.  Is  that  ignoble  ? 
Very  well.  But  the  noblest  way  to  benefit  pos 
terity  is  to  serve  the  present  age,  —  to  serve  it  by 
doing  one's  best,  indeed,  but  by  doing  it  now,  not 
waiting  for  some  distant  day  when  one  may  do  it 
better.  A  writer  deserves  no  pardon  for  careless 
or  hurried  writing.  As  much  time  as  he  has  men 
tal  ability  to  spend  on  it,  so  much  time  he  should 
devote  to  it.  But  then  speed  it  on  its  way.  Shut 
it  up  for  a  term  of  years,  and  you  will  perhaps 
have  a  manuscript  that  says  begin  where  it  used  to 
say  commence,  but  in  the  mean  time  all  the  people 
whom  you  wished  to  save  have  died  of  a  broken 
heart,  —  or  lived  with  one,  which  is  still  worse. 
Besides,  even  for  improvement,  it  is  better  to  pub 
lish  your  paper  than  to  keep  it  in  the  drawer. 
There,  all  the  amendments  it  can  receive  will 
come  from  the  few  feeble  advances  in  knowledge 
which  you  may  be  so  fortunate  as  to  make.  But 
print  it  and  every  one  immediately  gives  you  es 
pecial  attention  and  the  benefit  of  his  judgment. 
If  you  should  happen  to  serve  in  the  right  wing 
of  Orthodoxy,  you  will  have  the  inestimable  boon 
of  the  freest  criticism  from  the  left  wing.  And  it 
is  the  religious  newspapers  for  not  mincing  mat 
ters  !  Between  Jew  and  Gentile  hostilitv  is  the 


MY  BOOK.  435 

normal  condition  of  things,  and  is  carried  on  peace 
ably  enough ;  but  when  Jew  meets  Jew,  then 
comes  the  tug  of  war !  These  people  obey  to  the 
letter  the  Apostolic  injunction,  and  confess  your 
faults  one  to  another  with  a  marvellous  relish, 
which  must  furnish  to  the  unbelieving  world  a 
lively  commentary  on  the  old  text,  "  Behold  how 
these  Christians  love  one  another !  "  When  their 
own  list  of  your  shortcomings  is  exhausted,  ten 
to  one  they  will  take  up  the  parable  of  somebody 
else ;  and  if  little  Johnny  Horner  sitting  in  the 
corner  of  his  sanctum  has  not  room  in  his  crowded 
columns  for  the  whole  pie  in  which  his  brother 
Horner  has  served  you  up,  never  fear  but  he 
will  put  in  his  thumb  and  pick  out  the  plums  to 
enliven  the  feast  withal. 

One  blemish  which  grievously  annoys  the  bish 
ops  and  other  clergy  is  irreverence.  Like  their 
Oriental  prototypes,  they  meet  the  exhortation  to 
be  of  good  cheer  with  an  outcry  that  the  exhorter 
blasphemeth.  They  are  shocked  with  the  con 
tempt  which  is  shown  for  the  Divine  record,  with 
the  irreverent  use  of  Bible  language.  They  evi 
dently  judge  according  to  Dr.  Johnson's  standard: 
"  Campbell  is  a  good  man,  —  a  pious  man.  I  am 
afraid  he  has  not  been  in  the  inside  of  a  church 
for  many  years ;  but  he  never  passes  a  church 
without  pulling  off  his  hat;  this  shows  he  has 
good  principles."  They  are  of  their  father  the 
Jew,  who  would  not  trample  on  a  piece  of  paper 


436          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

lest  it  might  contain  the  name  of  Jehovah,  but 
who  scrupled  not  to  stone  His  prophets  and  cru 
cify  His  Son.  Yet  though  their  hearts  are  stirred 
within  them  at  liberties  taken  by  lay  writers,  they 
are  not  only  not  shocked,  but  on  the  contrary  they 
quite  —  if  I  may  use  so  secular  a  word  in  so  sacred 
a  connection  —  chuckle  over  it,  when  such  liber 
ties  emanate  from  clerical  sources.  Nobody  pro 
fessed  himself  shocked  when  a  religious  newspaper 
told  us,  with  great  glee,  how,  when. a  certain  Dr. 
S.  was  first  settled  in  Hartford,  "  Dr.  Bellamy, 
feeling  a  deep  interest  in  the  success  of  the  church 
in  this  favored  spot,  resolved  to  visit  the  youthful 
pastor,  and  '  see  if  he  would  do.'  On  arriving  at 
the  residence  of  his  young  brother,  which  was  a 
new  house  and  nicely  furnished,  Dr.  Bellamy  re 
marked,  as  Mr.  S.  met  him  at  the  door,  '  So  you 
have  got  your  house  all  swept  and  garnished.' 
4  Yes,  yes,  Dr.  Bellamy,  all  ready  for  evil  spirits, 
—  walk  in,  walk  in.'  We  need  not  add,  that  Dr. 
Bellamy,  after  a  hearty  laugh,  remarked,  '  He  '11 
do,  he  '11  do.'  " 

The  same  paper  tells  of  Mr.  Leifchild's  "jour 
ney  from  Bristol  to  Wells  in  company  with  Mr. 
Hall,  who  was  a  great  smoker.  He  descended 
at  a  blacksmith's  shop  to  relight  his  pipe.  Mak 
ing  his  way  to  the  forge,  he  jumped  aside  with 
unwonted  agility,  when  a  huge  dog  growled  at 
him.  When  he  returned  to  the  carriage,  Mr. 
Leifchild  observed,  '  You  seemed  afraid  of  the 


MY  BOOK.  437 

dog,  sir.'  Mr.  Hall  instantly  rejoined,  '  Apostolic 
advice,  sir,  Beware  of  dogs.'  ' 

The  Remarker  is  the  head  and  front  .and  both 
wings  of  the  Orthodox  army.  It  is  so  intensely 
religious  a  newspaper  that  it  cares  little  to  have 
a  long  list  of  subscribers,  but  is  deeply  anxious 
to  have  them  of  sound  Orthodox  piety,  —  which  is 
a  thing  to  be  admired  (at)  in  this  Mammon-wor 
shipping  age,  and  furnishes  a  touching  illustration 
of  the  manner  in  which  Providence  tempers  the 
wind  to  the  shorn  lamb.  Now  one  would  not 
wish,  even  if  it  were  possible,  to  be  any  more 
pious  than  the  Remarker,  for  fear  he  might  die 
young.  Yet  the  Remarker  tells  us  a  story  of 
Father  Hill,  of  Mason,  N.  H.,  who  "  had  a  par 
sonage  full  of  young  children"  :  — 

"  The  Rev.  William  M.  Rogers  of  this  city  was 
once  on  a  visit  to  that  brother  minister.  The  boys 
and  girls  were  in  full  glee  around  him,  when  he 
quietly  remarked,  that  he  never  knew  before  the 
full  meaning  of  the  Psalmist,  where  he  says  that 
'  the  little  hills  rejoice  on  every  side.'  ' 

And  it  not  only  tells  the  story  without  any  ap 
parent  horror  of  the  Scriptural  quip,  but  adds,  that 
we  may  be  sure  of  its  truth,  "  We  had  this  from 
the  Rev.  Timothy  Hill,  one  of  the  juvenile  group, 
for  many  years  since  a  Western  missionary." 

But  if  it  is  meet  and  right  for  the  clergy  to 
wrest  the  words  of  the  Divine  record  away  from 
their  Divine  meaning,  can  it  be  a  high  crime  for 


438         SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

the  laity  to  apply  their  Divine  meanings  to  common 
things?  If  a  clergyman  may  make  a  joke  from 
the  Bible  whenever  he  can  think  of  one,  may  not 
a  layman  use  a  phrase  from  the  same  source  when 
it  comes  to  him  ?  If  a  minister  may  manufacture 
puns,  may  not  a  man  borrow  pungency?  or  are 
we  to  return  to  the  good  old  times,  and  have  the 
Bible  once  more  chained  to  the  pulpit  ? 

But  a  thing  truly  wonderful  to  see  is  the  man 
ner  in  which  the  hostility  aroused  by  my  book 
swallows  up  ah"  lesser  hostilities.  The  chronic 
enmity  between  different  divisions  of  the  Church 
Militant  disappears  at  its  coming,  and  "  The  Re- 
marker  "  and  "  The  Furnace  "  lie  side  by  side  in 
melodious  concord, —  which  is  such  a  reconcilia 
tion  as  has  rarely  been  seen  since  the  day  when 
Herod  and  Pilate  were  made  friends  together. 
The  Furnace  is  indeed  pathetic  in  its  aversion. 
It  is  little  to  say  that  it  disapproves ;  it  cannot 
even  tolerate  me  when  mingled  with,  and,  it 
might  be  hoped,  modified  by,  other  ingredients 
in  the  "  Oceanic  Miscellany,"  and  insists  on  be 
ing  warned  against  my  approach  that  it  may  parry, 
the  blow.  In  pity  for  its  woes,  permit  me  to  an 
nounce  that  there  is  a  plan  on  foot,  either  to  issue 
for  its  use  an  expurgated  edition  of  the  "  Oceanic 
Miscellany,"  comprising  only  the  most  Elegant 
Extracts,  or  else  to  hoist  a  little  black  flag  when 
I  am  coining,  that  the  Reverend  Mokanna  may 
have  time  to  put  on  his  silver  veil  and  so  the 


MY  BOOK.  439 

gales  of  heaven  shall  not  visit  his  face  too  roughly. 
Next,  and  with  no  unequal  steps,  comes  "  The  No- 
ticer,"  a  paper  which,  apparently  finding  it  impos 
sible- to  become  thoroughly  regenerate,  long  ago 
gave  up  the  attempt  in  despair,  and  now  regularly 
divides  itself  off  into  a  sort  of  Holy  and  Profane 
State.  Unfortunately,  in  its  eagerness  to  em 
brace  a  fancied  opportunity  to  despatch  a  provin 
cial  victim  and  several  metropolitan  brethren  at 
one  fell  swoop,  it  left  a  bar  down  or  a  gate  open, 
and  so  permitted  —  unconsciously  let  us  hope  —  a 
rather  profane  little  fib  or  two  to  stray  over  upon  the 
holy  side.  But  to  use  its  own  brilliant  and  start 
ling  language,  which,  it  congratulates  itself  those 
who  have  once  heard  will  never  forget,  "  Doctors 
differ.  Editors  differ.  Good  men  differ,"  —  a 
"logical  division"  of  mankind  which,  so  far  as  one 
may  judge  from  "  The  Noticer,"  complies  strictly 
with  Whately's  third  rule  for  Division,  viz.  the 
Parts  or  Members  must  not  be  contained  in  one 

* 

another.  However,  since  nobody  supposes  diffi 
culty  of  perception  to  be  incompatible  with  good 
ness  of  heart,  and  since  we  permit  a  pious  soul 
to  puff  itself  out  a  good  deal  beyond  its  due  di 
mensions  without  forfeiting  its  right  of  passage 
through  the  strait  gate,  we  may  also  admit  that 
a  good  man  who  differs  so  widely  from  other  good 
men  as  to  be  careless  of  truth,  is  like  Kinglake's 
Gladstone,  a  good  man  —  in  the  worst  sense  of 
the  term  ! 


440         SKIRMISHES  AM)  SKETCHES. 

It  will  readily  be  inferred  that,  after  all  this  ban 
ning  with  bell,  book,  and  candle,  it  only  remains  to 
sigh  with  penitent  Pet  Marjorie,  "  My  character  is 
lost  among  the  Braehead  people.  I  hope  I. will 
be  religious  again,  but  as  for  regaining  my  charec- 
ter  I  despare  for  it."  However,  I  shall  keep  on 
writing,  —  hit,  if  I  can,  miss,  if  I  must,  but  shoot 
any  way.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  firing  that 
kills  no  men  and  breaches  no  walls,  but  it  wor 
ries  the  enemy.  John  Brown  did  not  in  the 
least  know  what  he  was  doing.  His  definite 
attempt  was  a  fatal  failure ;  but  the  great  and 
guilty  conspiracy  behind,  of  which  he  saw  noth 
ing,  was  smitten  to  the  heart  under  his  random 
blows ;  his  sixteen  white  men  and  five  negroes, 
flung  blindly  and  recklessly  against  the  ramparts 
of  Slavery,  were  but  the  precursors  of  that  great 
host,  black  and  white,  which  has  since  gone  down, 
organized  and  intelligent,  to  tread  the  wine-press 
of  the  wrath  of  God. 

I  fear  I  am  committing  the  rhetorical  error  of 
comparing  small  things  with  great ;  but,  if  Virgil 
could  bring  in  the  Cyclops  and  their  thunderbolts 
to  illustrate  his  bees,  and  Demetrius  Phalereus 
iustify  it,  you  will  hardly  count  it  a  capital  offence 
in  me,  —  and  I  don't  much  care  if  you  do,  if  I  can 
only  convince  you  that  I  am  not  going  to  be  silent 
because  I  do  not  know  the  Alpha  and  Omega  of 
things.  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  logical,  or  consist 
ent,  or  coherent.  Nature  is  not.  A  forest  of 


MY  BOOK.  441 

oaks  burns  down  or  is  cut  down,  and  do  oaks 
spring  again  ?  No.  Pines.  Logic  is  baffled,  but 
the  land  is  bettered.  A  field  of  corn  is  planted, 
and  Nature  does  not  set  herself  to  protect  it,  but 
sends  a  flock  of  crows  to  devour  it;  the  farmers 
grumble,  but  the  crows  are  saved  alive.  Freezing 
water  contracts  awhile,  and  then  without  any 
provocation  turns  about  and  expands ;  if  your 
pitcher  stands  in  the  way,  so  much  the  worse 
for  the  pitcher,  but  the  little  fishes  are  grateful ; 
and  with  all  her  whims  and  inconsequences,  Na 
ture  gets  on  from  year  to  year  without  once  fail 
ing  of  seed-time  and  harvest,  cold  or  heat.  How 
is  it  with  you  and  your  logic,  you  men  who  have 
been  to  college  and  discovered  what  you  are  talk 
ing  about  ?  You  who  discuss  politics  and  decide 
affairs,  are  you  not  continually  accusing  one  an 
other  of  sophistry,  inconsistency,  and  shying  away 
from  the  point  ?  Take  up  any  political  or  religious 
newspaper,  and  see,  according  to  their  own  testi 
mony,  how  deficient  in  logic  are  all  these  logic- 
mongers,  —  how  all  the  learned  and  logical  are 
accused  by  other  learned  and  logical  of  false  as 
sumptions,  of  invalid  reasoning,  of  foregone  conclu 
sions,  of  pride  and  prejudice  and  passion.  One 
would  say  that  the  result  of  your  profound  re 
searches  vvas  only  to  make  you  more  intensely 
illogical  than  you  could  otherwise  be. 

"  As  skilful  divers  to  the  bottom  fall 
Swifter  than  they  who  cannot  swim  at  all, 
19* 


442          SKIRMISHES  AND   SKETCHES. 

So  in  the  sea  of  sophisms,  to  my  thinking, 
You  have  a  strange  alacrity  in  sinking." 

(Ego  et  Dorset  fecimut .') 

Sure  I  am,  my  humble  ability  in  the  way  of  un 
reason  can  never  compass  fallacies  so  stupendous 
as  those  which  you  attribute  to  one  another ;  and 
I  will  none  of  your  logic,  but  will  rather  rest  con 
tent  with  the  advantage,  that,  when  I  write  non 
sense,  I  know  it  is  nonsense,  while  you,  pardon 
me,  write  it  and  think  it  sense.  But  your  thinking 
so  does  not  make  it  so,  and  you  will  not  rule  me 
out  of  court  on  the  strength  of  it.  In  the  domain 
of  letters  is  none  but  Squatter  Sovereignty.  In 
literature,  though  not  in  morals,  might  makes 
right.  If  you  are  cultivating  the  soil  to  its  utmost 
capacity,  I  shall  not  meddle  ;  but  if  it  seems  to  me 
that  you  are  letting  it  lie  fallow  while  I  can  draw 
a  furrow  to  some  purpose,  you  need  not  warn  me 
off  with  your  old  title-deeds ;  in  my  ploughshare 
shall  go.  To  a  better  farmer  I  will  yield  right 
gladly,  but  I  will  not  be  scared  away  by  a  sign 
board. 

When  you  learnedly  assert  that  my  induction 
is  meagre,  I  am  the  farthest  in  the  world  from 
contradicting  you.  Nay,  I  am  ready  to  confess 
not  only  that  it  is  meagre,  but  that  there  is  no 
induction  at  all.  For,  look  you,  induction  is  for 
hidden,  not  for  obvious  truth.  If  I  wished  to  con 
vince  you,  or  to  satisfy  myself,  that  the  earth's 
centre  is  a  mass  of  fire,  I  should  produce  a  suf- 


MY  BOOK.  443 

ficient  number  of  caloric  facts  to  give  the  state 
ment  a  stable  basis.  But  if  my  design  were  to 
arouse  you  to  a  true  sense  of  earth's  beautiful 
summer  greenness,  I  should  not  go  plucking  grass 
in  all  directions,  but  should  merely  show  you  a 
blade  or  a  leaf  to  illustrate  what  I  meant  by 
"  green,"  and  bid  you  use  your  own  eyes  for  the 
rest.  If  the  earth  is  indeed  not  green,  but  blue, 
my  judgment  pays  the  penalty ;  but  there  is  no 
induction  about  it. 

Nor  need  you  go  very  far  out  of  your  way  to 
affirm  that  I  have  not  the  requisite  experience  for  • 
writing  on  such  and  such  topics.  As  a  principle, 
the  remark  is  absurd.  Cannot  a  doctor  prescribe 
for  typhus  fever,  unless  he  has  had  typhus  fever 
himself?  On  the  contrary,  is  he  not  the  better 
able  to  prescribe  from  always  having  had  a  sound 
mind  in  a  sound  body  ?  As  a  fact,  my  experience 
ih  those  things  concerning  which  you  allege  its  in 
sufficiency  has  never  been  presented  to  you,  and 
its  discussion  is  therefore  entirely  irrelevant.  If 
my  statements  are  false,  they  are  false ;  if  my 
arguments  are  inconclusive,  they  are  inconclu 
sive  :  disprove  the  one  and  refute  the  other. 
But  whether  this  state  of  things  be  owing  to  a 
want  of  experience,  or  inability  to  use  experience 
aright,  or  any  personal  circumstance  whatever, 
is  a  matter  in  regard  to  which  all  the  laws  of 
courtesy  forbid  you  to  concern  yourself. 

You  are  sometimes  so  good  as  to  inform  me  that 


444          SKIRMISHES  AND  SKETCHES. 

I  am  exhausting  my  resources,  and  in  over-anxious 
kindness  declare  even  that  I  have  exhausted  my 
self.  Not  a  bit. 

"  It  is  no  task  for  suns  to  shine," 

though  the  sputtering  little  tallow  candle  can 
hardly  be  expected  to  believe  it. 

And  pray,  Gentle  Critic,  do  not  tell  me  that  I 
must  be  content  simply  to  amuse,  or  must  —  any 
thing  else.  Must  is  a  hard  word  ;  be  not  too 
confident  of  its  power.  I  feel  a  grandmotherly 
interest  in  the  world  and  its  ways ;  and  much  as  I 
should  like  to  amuse  it,  I  shall  never  be  content 
with  that.  You  may  not  like  to  be  instructed,  my 
dear  children,  but  instructed  you  shall  be.  You 
read  long  ago,  in  your  story-book,  that  little  Tom 
my  Piper  did  not  want  his  face  washed,  though 
he  was  very  willing  to  be  amused  with  soap-bub 
bles  ;  but  his  face  needed  a  washing,  and  got  it% 
I  come  to  you  with  soap-bubbles  indeed,  but  with 
scrubbing  -brushes  also.  If  you  take  to  them 
kindly,  it  will  soon  be  over;  but  if  you  scream 
and  struggle,  I  shall  not  only  scrub  the  harder, 

OO       :  t/ 

but  be  all  the  longer  about  it. 

Sometimes  grave  refutations  are  very  amusing. 
It  is  astonishing  to  see  how  crank-proof  sundry 
people  are.  Everything  seems  to  them  on  a  dead 
level  of  categorical  proposition.  They  walk  up 
to  every  statue  with  their  measuring-line  of  Bar 
bara,  Celarent,  Darn,  Ferioque  Prioris,  and  meas- 


MY  BOOK.  445 

ure  them  off  with  equal  solemnity,  telling  you 
severely  that  this  nose  is  far  longer  than  the  clas 
sic  rule  admits,  and  this  arm  has  not  the  swelling 
proportions  of  life,  —  never  seeing,  that,  though 
another  statue  was  indeed  designed  for  an  Anti- 
nous,  this  was  never  meant  to  be  anything  but 
a  broomstick  dressed  in  your  grandfather's  cloak, 
with  a  lantern  in  a  pumpkin-shell  for  a  head.  O 
the  dreariness  of  having  to  explain  pleasantry !  of 
dealing  with  people  Avho  do  not  know  the  differ 
ence  between  a  blow  and  a  "  love-pat,"  between 
Quaker  guns  and  an  Armstrong  battery,  between 
a  granite  paving-stone  and  the  moonshine  on  a 
mud-puddle ! 

But  they  make  up  for  it  by  tui'ning  your  wis 
dom  into  wish-wash;  as  Charles  Lamb  atoned  for 
reaching  his  office  late  in  the  morning  by  leaving 
it  early  in  the  afternoon.  Your  sense  must  be 
solemn  and  stationary  in  order  to  be  recognized. 
They  cannot  conceive  that  it  may  toss  like  the 
buoy  on  the  tide,  and  yet  be  moored  to  foundations 
firm  as  the  perpetual  hills.  On  the  whole 

"  The  Robin  sings  in  the  elm ; 

The  cattle  stand  beneath 
Sedate  and  grave,  with  great  brown  eyes, 
And  fragrant  meadow  breath. 

"  They  listen  to  the  nattered  bird, 

The  wise-looking  stupid  things  ! 
And  they  never  understand  a  word 
Of  all  the  Robin  sings." 


44G          SKIRMISHES  AXD   SKETCHES. 

But  the  great  consolation  both  for  my  critics 
and  myself  is,  that  we  shall  gradually  get  used  to 
each  other.  At  least,  I  shall  furnish  them  abun 
dant  opportunity  to  get  used  to  me.  There  are 
many  books  still  to  come,  —  a  treatise  on  the 
Curvature  of  the  Square,  —  a  Dissertation  on 
Foreign  Literature,  —  two  or  three  novels,  —  a 
book  on  Human  Life,  that  is  going  to  turn  the 
world  upside  down,  —  a  book  on  Theology,  dull 
enough  to  be  sensible,  that  is  going  to  turn  it 
back  again,  —  and  a  bandboxful  of  children's  sto 
ries.  And  when  these  are  disposed  of,  I  dare  say 
I  shall  turn  the  glass  and  begin  again. 

Truly  there  was  no  need  of  saying  all  this ;  but 
when  they  droop  their  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle 
joy,  so  temptingly  within  hand-reach,  who  can  re 
strain  himself  from  filliping  them?  But  I  take  no 
liberties  with  leviathan.  Good  and  friendly  souls, 
Greathearts  who  might  crush  me  and  do  not,  I 
should  like  to  thank  you,  but  perhaps  you  do  not 
care.  Yet  bear  with  me  a  little  longer  in  my  fol 
ly  ;  and,  indeed,  bear  with  me  for  the  sake  of  the 
weak.  Many  and  many  there  may  be  to  whom 
the  meat  of  your  metaphysics  is  indigestible  and 
unpalatable,  but  who  find  strength  and  cheer  in 
the  sincere  milk  of  such  words  as  I  can  give.  To 
you  who  have  already  set  your  feet  on  the  high 
places,  that  may  be  but  a  bruised  reed  which  is  a 
staff  to  those  who  are  still  struggling  up. 


MY  BOOK.  447 

Of  the  blessings  which  my  book  has  brought 
me, — blessings  of  inward  wealth  that  cannot  be  so 
much  as  named,  —  blessings  so  rich,  so  divine,  that 
I  sometimes  think  nothing  ever  was  so  beautiful  as 
to  have  written  a  book,  —  I  may  not  speak ;  but  I 
trust  that  when  all  this  frightful  glare  of  day,  all 
this  rough  litter,  and  jar,  and  deafening  din  of  work 
shall  be  overpast, — when  the  serene  Night  beckons 
to  me,  and  I  go  on  into  her  fragrant  silence  and 
her  sweet  sheltering  darkness,  —  I  shall  bear  with 
me  some  memories  that  were  not  all  of  earth  ; 
some  pure  delights  that  shall  glow  through  the 
charmed  air,  soft  as  night's  dewy  breath  and  last 
ing  as  her  stars. 


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